
Double Number 45 


October, 19 00 


OLIVER 


GOLDSMITH 


EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BV 

EDWARD EVERETT HALE, Jr. 


UNIVERSITY PUBLISHING COMPANY 


NEW YORK: 43-47 E. Tenth Street 

BOSTON: 352 Washington Street 

NEW ORLEANS : 7 t 4 and 7 1 6 Canal Street 


Published Quarterly 


Four Numbers, 60 cents 


Entered m second-class matter at the Post Office at New TorTc, N.T. 





Hass ; : _ _ 

Ronlc ,C ? 5 < 8Vg5 
Copyright N° 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


* 









































































































4 










c 
























* 




























•. ■ 






. • » 

























































STANDARD LITERATURE SERIES 


THE 

VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


BY 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH 


EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES FOR SCHOOL USE 

BY 

EDWARD EVERETT HALE, Jr., Ph.D. 

PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC IN UNION COLLEGE 



UNIVERSITY PUBLISHING COMPANY 


NEW YORK 


BOSTON 


NEW ORLEANS 


Library Ot Congre«» 

two CortES Received 

NOV 1 1900 

Copyright ontry 

JVW A v \P\*rO' 
SECOND COPY. 

Delivered to 

ORDER DIVISION, 

fjnv 9.3 \m± 



***2326 


Copyright, 1900, by 

UNIVERSITY PUBLISHING COMPANY 



PREFATORY NOTE. 


The main points kept in mind in editing this edition of 
“ The Vicar of Wakefield” are indicated in the detailed 
suggestions for study. A considerable part of the work is 
linguistic, as seems necessary with a book of the eighteenth 
century. But the main aim has been to let the book itself 
supply the means for its own study. As it happens that 
in this case the life of the author and the historical 
position of the book are more important than with some 
other books, they are therefore made the subject of more 
detailed treatment. 

The text follows, in the main, that of the first edition. 
But as a critical text seems by no means necessary, the para- 
graphing has been somewhat altered, the spelling modernized, 
and many words and expressions either omitted entirely or 
changed. 

Edward E. Hale, Jr. 

Union College. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

PREFATORY NOTE . iii 

INTRODUCTION : 

The Life of Goldsmith v 

“The Vicar of Wakefield” . . ix 

Suggestions for Study xiii 

Specimen Examination Questions xix 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


1 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 

Op many authors it may be rightly said that the course of their lives 
had but little influence upon their work. Of many more it may be 
said that their lives were quite uneventful, and that they lived along 
from day to day, doing such ordinary things that had they not been 
distinguished men themselves, their lives would be quite without 
interest to us. It is true that we always feel an interest in the life 
of a favorite author and a curiosity as to what .he did, but very 
often a great knowledge of biographical detail has no connection 
at all with the appreciation of an author’s work. 

With Goldsmith the case is different. Not merely was his life 
singularly eventful, but it left its mark on his writings. Many of 
the events and thoughts of his life are reproduced in “The Vicar of 
Wakefield.” We shall see, in several of the later chapters of the 
book, that in telling the adventures of George Primrose, Goldsmith 
is really telling us of his own; that in giving the thoughts and spec- 
ulations of the Vicar upon the evils of the time, he is giving us really 
what he thought himself. So, with Goldsmith, there is more reason 
than is often the case for learning something about the life of our 
author. It is more interesting than author’s lives usually are, and it 
affected his writing more. 

One result, however, of Goldsmith’s eventful life is that he did so 
much that we can only give the slightest account of it all. j In a few 
words we may say that he was born in Ireland and that he had an 
Irish character ; that he tried his hand at many different occupations ; 
that he finally became definitely settled in London as a man of let- 
ters ; that he wrote much, both things that the booksellers wanted 
him to write and things that he wanted to write himself ; that he 
became famous and highly esteemed, and that when he died his 
statue was placed in the Poet’s Corner of Westminster Abbey. I But 


VI 


INTRODUCTION. 


when we come to details they crowd upon us in very bewildering 
fashion. In all of them, however, he presents the same careless, 
happy, queer, and lovable character, so that it is not as important 
to tell everything as it might be. 

Goldsmith was born at Pallas, in the central part of Ireland, on 
November 10, 1728. His father was a clergyman and his elder 
brother became a clergyman, so though neither of them were very 
well-to-do in the world, it was natural that Goldsmith should have 
been destined for one of the “learned” professions (p. 4), and re- 
ceived a good education. The only real drawback to his education 
was his own careless character : he was clever enough at studying, al- 
though not in talking; but he could not manage to go easily through 
the regular course of things that ordinary men find not so very dif- 
ficult. At Trinity College, Dublin, the educational centre of Ireland, 
he quarrelled with his tutor, neglected the studies he did not like, 
got mixed up in riotous disturbances, left the university for a time 
on account of some disgrace, and finally (1749) managed to take a 
degree. 

At the age of twenty-one his prospects could not have been brilliant 
in the eyes of his friends. He himself, on the other hand, was most 
cheerful and light-hearted, a charming companion, and full of agree- 
able affection. He agreed easily to the plan that he should go into 
the Church ; but unfortunately, when he applied to the Bishop for 
ordination, he was rejected. He consoled himself with thoughts of 
tutoring, but as soon as he had saved a little money he was carried 
away by the idea of going to America. Of course he did not get 
very far, and in a few weeks re-appeared at home. A kind uncle 
proposed the profession of the law and provided funds. Goldsmith 
started cheerfully for London, but lost all his money by gambling on 
the way and was shortly at home again. His family must have been 
in despair. His uncle suggested medicine and Goldsmith of course 
agreed. Here he actually made a beginning in life. He left home 
finally and forever ; he studied medicine, and somehow acquired that 
title by which he was afterward commonly known — that of “Doc- 
tor,” 

It is not recorded that he pursued the studies of his profession 
with very great diligence. He went to Edinburgh, where he remained 
for two years. Then he started out for Leyden, in Holland, where 
there had long been a famous university. How much he did at Ley- 


INTRODUCTION. 


vii 

den is unknown ; it is certain, however, that he used up his money, 
for in no very long time we find him wandering through France on 
foot, much as George Primrose does in the story (p. 110). He man- 
aged in this way to see the greater part of France and Italy, and in 
1756 found himself once more in England. 

As a matter of course he made for London. It was to London 
that all who had no definite career turned their steps to seek their 
fortunes, as the old saying is. Goldsmith does not seem to have had 
the profession of an author especially in mind; he tried his hand 
with a company of strolling players as he tramped along the road ; 
he took the position of usher or under-master at a boy’s school; he 
corrected proof sheets ; he even endeavored to make a beginning at 
his real profession of medicine. But none of these ventures were 
successful or permanent. 

Not till after about twelve months of experiment did his true 
powers find a chance. He attracted the attention of the publishers 
of one of the London magazines, and was engaged to supply articles 
to the “Monthly Review.” He was to write anything the editor 
needed to fill up with. 

Although this particular engagement did not last very long, and 
although Goldsmith tried teaching and medicine again, yet this was 
his real beginning at his life-work. Certainly the writing anything 
that might be called for was not a very dignified form of the author’s 
profession, but at least it kept him alive, and it also led to something 
else. From this time (1757) to his death, Goldsmith lived chiefly in 
London and made his living by his pen. He never settled anywhere 
else, and, in spite of trying his hand at medicine every now and then, 
he never really did anything else but write. 

In the next twenty years he wrote a great deal that was demanded 
of him by publishers and booksellers, and much of it had no very 
great merit. But beside these things that he wrote for money, he 
also found leisure to express his truer thoughts and feelings, and 
thus wrote some of the best things in the literature of the time. His 
essays attracted notice ; his poems, “The Traveller ” and “The De- 
serted Village,” were the best that had appeared since Pope; his play, 
“ She Stoops to Conquer,” was successful in its day and has kept the 
stage since, and “ The Vicar of Wakefield ” is one of the best novels 
of the century. This would be a proud record for any author; from 
it we understand what Johnson meant when lie said of Goldsmith 


INTRODUCTION. 


yiii 

that he left scarcely any mode of writing untouched, and touched 
none that he did not adorn. 

But he did not leap at once to fame. His first important poem, 
“The Traveller,” appeared in 1764. It gave him a reputation, but 
he had already worked in great poverty and hardship for seven years. 
In those years he had become known as a clever essayist and hack 
writer of whatever sort of thing the booksellers wanted. Now he 
was seen to be something far better, a man of genius and a poet. 

He had already written “ The Vicar of Wakefield,” or had at least 
planned it. Of this book the story is told that Dr. Johnson one day 
got a letter from Goldsmith, begging him to come and see him at 
once. On reaching his lodgings Johnson found him dunned by his 
landlady for rent. They talked the situation over and Goldsmith 
said that he had a manuscript novel on his hands which might be 
turned to t account. Johnson looked at it, “saw its merit,” to use 
his own words, put it into his pocket, and went away to sell it. He 
did sell it and Goldsmith paid his rent that time, but the publisher 
who bought it, for some reason or other did not publish it for some 
years. It finally appeared in 1766. 

He next turned his attention to the stage, but his first comedy, 
“ The Good-Natured Man,” was not very successful. His hands were 
now full of work of all kinds — Histories of England, Rome, Greece, 
works on Science and Natural History — but he also found time to 
compose “The Deserted Village,” which was regarded with more 
favor even than “The Traveller.” It is certainly very beautiful 
poetry of its kind. His last important work was “She Stoops to 
Conquer,” a play which shares with Sheridan’s “School of Scandal” 
and “ The Rivals ” the honor of being the most brilliant comedies of 
our literature. 

These are Goldsmith’s chief works. But a list of them gives no 
real idea of his life nor of his character. His life in London for 
twenty years, although more settled than his varied experiments in 
search of a profession, had yet decided ups and downs. He never 
attained that steady habit of life which is careful of the present and 
provident for the future. He made a great deal of money, but he 
was generally in debt; he wrote exquisite and charming works, but 
he had also to toil days and months upon pieces of book-work which 
could have had but little interest for him ; he had many of the most 
distinguished men of his time as friends, yet he was constantly 


INTRODUCTION. 


IX 


doing careless and foolish things, like beating booksellers and 
wearing clothes of bloom-colored plush. 

He was certainly made up of strange contradictions, but there was 
one characteristic which nothing ever changed or even obscured. 
This was his genuine goodness of nature and his sweet charm of 
manner. He was often hasty but never unkind, and, in spite of his 
follies, everybody had a warm heart for him. Dr. Johnson, who 
blamed him in the sternest manner for his many mistakes and errors, 
was also, as Mr. Austin Dobson says, the man who understood him 
best and loved him most. And whether they have fully under- 
stood that strange mixture of genius and childishness, of keen per- 
ception of the beautiful and careless indifference to common sense — 
whether they have understood him or not, his readers also for one 
hundred and fifty years have always felt, that in spite of all failures, 
here was a man who truly appealed to the heart. 


“THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.” 

Among the commonest things to be read, for entertainment or im- 
provement, are novels. There is much else to read in this world — 
the newspaper is much read, and the magazine and many other things. 
Still for the majority of Americans the chief reading, especially if it 
be for amusement, is novel-reading. In most public libraries the 
novels are the books most circulated. In the publishers’ lists of 
widely selling books the novels are always the most widely selling. 
When we think of an author, we are apt to think of a novelist. 

Those who know a little of literature will remember that this was 
not always the case. In the time of Shakespeare, for instance, the 
most common literary amusement was the drama. There were tales 
and stories which .may be called novels, but the great interest was 
the drama. Nowadays we can hardly think of a living English 
dramatist whom we consider an author of power and repute equal to 
that of our great novelists. But in Shakespeare’s day it was other- 
wise: there were many dramatists, some of whom have remained 
famous through three centuries. It was not unnatural, in a time 
when books were costly and when few people could read, that the 
theatre should have largely taken the place that the novel takes now. 
The theatre was a place where any man could go for a little money ; 


X 


INTKODU CTION. 


he did not need to know how to read, nor did he need to own or 
borrow books : he went to the theatre and saw exciting stories acted 
before him — the story of the Danish Prince who saw the. ghost of 
his father, of the Moorish General who was tricked into murdering 
his wife, of the old King who was turned out of house and home by 
his unloving daughters. That was something like novel reading. 

But they had not always had a theatre in England. In the time 
of Chaucer and before, there was no real theatre and there were no 
novels either. In those days the poor people listened to ballads, and 
the richer people listened to story-tellers. In Chaucer’s “ Canterbury 
Tales,” we are told of a number of people who went to Canterbury 
together, riding along the road. They agreed that as they rode 
they would tell each other stories — stories of all kinds, funny stories, 
church legends, tales of chivalry. Where people cannot get books 
or read, where there is no theatre in which any one can see a story 
acted on the stage, there they will tell stories to each other. In 
Chaucer’s day these stories were commonly put in poetry because 
people felt that for an elegant and charming story, prose w T as too 
common and ordinary. 

Thus the novel did not always exist in England, but had a begin- 
ning, and the time of its beginning is commonly set down as the 
middle of the eighteenth century. It is true that before that time 
there had been many stories and tales that we must call fiction, which 
are not unlike what we might now call a novel. Thus Sir Thomas 
More (1516) wrote of a new and strange country called “Utopia,” as 
a means of giving his ideas on the true constitution of the best gov- 
ernment. Sir Philip Sidney (1590) wrote the “Arcadia,” full of the 
adventures of knights and ladies, shepherds and shepherdesses. 
Bunyan (1678) put the experience of the Christian life in the form 
.of the story of a man who journeyed from one city to another. 
Swift (1726) put his satire on men and the world around him into the 
story of Lemuel Gulliver, who travelled into strange lands and saw 
strange peoples. But the “ Utopia,” the “Arcadia,” “ The Pilgrim’s 
Progress,” and “Gulliver’s Travels,” are not exactly what we should 
call novels, and even if they had been, each was almost the only one 
of its kind ; neither can be said to have given the start to the im- 
mense literature of fiction which exists to-day. 

In the time of Swift, De Foe wrote “Robinson Crusoe” (1719), 
and a number of other stories not so well known, and Addison 


INTRODUCTION. 


XI 


(1711), in the periodical which he published three times a week, 
gave a number of sketches of Sir Roger de Coverley, “ a fine old 
English gentleman,” as the song says. Still we do not find novels of 
the kind we think of to-day. 

In the years between 1740 and 1750 appeared the books which first 
exhibit to us the true English novel, though not yet developed into 
all the forms with which we are now familiar. Richardson told long 
love stories of the people of his own day. Fielding told stories of 
the men and women he knew, stories of love partly and partly of 
adventure. Smollett continued with tales of riotous and humorous 
incidents. As soon as the idea was so far developed, it was caught 
up by many more, and almost everybody wrote novels of a more or 
less experimental kind. Dr. Johnson wrote a tale of “Rasselas, 
Prince of Abyssinia” (1759) ; Sir Horace Walpole (1765) wrote 
‘ ‘ The Castle of Otranto, ” a story of Gothic mystery and horror. It was 
at about this time that Goldsmith w T rote “The Yicar of Wakefield.” 
It is not known exactly when, or how, or why he wrote it — except 
that, as we have seen, he could and did write everything: plays, 
poems, essays, histories, treatises — but the story of the publication 
seems a little as if he had written for fun. 

That is to say, “ The Yicar of Wakefield ” is an old English novel. 
It is one of the novels of the early days of English novels. We 
must read it with the recollectionthatisnot a novel of our own time. 
It is a book which has served as a model for many a novel of later 
time, but in itself it is different from those novels which we read 
to-day. This gives us the historical position of the book, which here 
is a matter of some importance. 

When we study a book, of course we want to enjoy it, but we 
also want to do a little more than that, we want to enjoy it intelli- 
gently, to enjoy it for what is best in it. “The Yicar of Wakefield” 
is an early novel ; it has not many things that we are used to in 
novels. What it does have is something rather different, something 
that novels, as time went on, were apt to lose. We read many novels 
of exciting adventure, “ Ivanhoe,” or “The Last of the Mohicans.” 
But “The Yicar of Wakefield ” is not a story of exciting adventure : 
there were plenty of chances for excitement ; Goldsmith might have 
told of the burning of the house or the carrying away of Sophia in 
an exciting way. But he did not care to : he had other ideas in 
mind. Or we may read novels with fully developed characters and 


INTRODUCTION. 


xii 

highly finished pictures of manners: “ Silas Marner,” or “David 
Copperfield.” Goldsmith has quite definite ideas of his characters, 
but he never thought of making them as highly finished studies as 
we may find in George Eliot ; he presented life much as he saw it, 
but he did not have the journalistic eye which enables Dickens to 
give such a vivid impression of the scenes and life about him. 

No : we must not think that Goldsmith’s novel will be like those 
of Scott or Dickens. They were novelists : Goldsmith was a man of 
letters who wrote one novel. But that one novel has been accepted 
as a classic both by his own people and by other nations, which is 
more than can be said for many very great novelists, because it had 
some of the lasting and permanent qualities of the genius of its 
author. We must read it quite simply, then, not demanding adven- 
ture, ingenuity of plot, close study of manners, keen views of char- 
acter; but keeping our appreciation fresh for the kindly story-teller 
who tells on and on without troubling his head about fifty refine- 
ments which have come into novel-writing since his day, and who 
has given us, when we put the book down, a store of imagination 
and recollection greater than we have from most books. 

The story is not at all probable, it is true, but it never loses our 
interest, and we can read to the very end with the wish to see what 
will happen next. The characters are not very minute studies, but 
they are very natural and almost every touch makes the right effect. 
The pictures of life may not be strictly true to nature, but they have 
unfailing charm. The episodes do not help the story along, but we 
like to read them for themselves. The bits of proverbial and moral 
wisdom that come in here and there are not very deep, but they 
almost always appeal to our common sense. The style is not always 
correct, but it is always easy. 

If we will read the book simply, without demanding what it has 
not, without comparing it with far more highly developed novels, we 
shall find ample reward ; we shall find that what the book actually 
has is sterling in worth — for humor, for pathos, for sympathy, we 
shall find that it has some things that far more careful novels lack. 

These are the things to be enjoyed. It is not wholly necessary to 
define them, to state to ourselves precisely what they are. But if we 
can state them we shall have gone some way in the direction of 
knowing what is meant by that word that we are apt enough to use 
without troubling about a definition, the word “ classic.” 


INTRODUCTION. 


XIX 


And the loud laugh that speaks the vacant mind.” 

— The Deserted Village , 1. 122. 

“ Lightly they frolic o’er the vacant mind.” 

—Ibid., 1. 257. 


And a comparison of all the passages will show that the word means 
“empty of care,” or “without care.” 

Some other parallels may be noted. 

Page 163. “though death . . . mock the weary traveller with 
the view and, like his horizon, still fly before him.” 


“ Impelled, with steps unceasing, to pursue 
Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view ; 

That like the circle bounding earth and skies 
Allures from far, yet as I follow, flies ”... 

— The Traveller , 11. 25-28. 


Page 12. “broken soldier”: 


“ The broken soldier kindly bade to stay, 

Sat by the fire and talked the night away.” 

— The Deserted Village , 11. 155, 156. 


Some more general comparisons may be made. Compare Dr. Prim- 
rose with “The Village Parson,” “The Deserted Village” (11. 137- 
192), and the Vicar’s views on politics (pp. 93-96) with “The 
Traveller ” (11. 335-348). 

Such work as this will give an idea which will become more and 
more accurate as it goes on of Goldsmith’s manner of thought and 
of writing. These are all things which might be told by the 
teacher or stated by the editor. The editor certainly must give 
some guide and direction : the teacher must add something. But it 
will not do for either to supply everything : a great part of the work 
should be done by the pupil. If he cannot easily do it at first, prac- 
tice will be followed by results, and he will finally have a much more 
definite possession of the book and a much closer and more accurate 
habit of reading than he could otherwise get. 


SPECIMEN EXAMINATION QUESTIONS. 

The preceding suggestions will themselves suggest many questions. 
But of course there are also matters that must be studied in other 
ways. The following questions indicate some of the things to be 


XX 


INTRODUCTION. 


known about the book in general — the characters, the words and 
expressions, the circumstances and manners of the time, and the life 
of Goldsmith : 

I. Is “The Vicar of Wakefield” most noteworthy for an interest- 
ing plot or story, for well-drawn characters, for clever conversations, 
for humorous adventures, or for what ? What can be said of the de- 
velopment and working out of the plot ? What episodes are there ? 

II. What was Dr. Primrose’s opinion of women ? What is said of 
his religious feeling ? What do we learn of Moses and his educa- 
tion ? Characterize the Vicar’s three oldest children. What sort of 
person was Sir William Thornhill ? 

III. What is a beadle ? A patron ? A paradox ? A humorist ? 
A post-chaise ? What is lambs’ wool ? Catgut ? What is meant by 
patched? Aggravate? Wooden shoes? Where do these words occur 
in the book ? 

IV. What was Grub Street ? What is meant by the expression 
now ? Why was Dr. Primrose put in prison ? How did the ladies 
ride on horseback ? What is the interest in the various allusions to 
ballads ? How did George think of going to America ? 

V. What parts of the book contain Goldsmith’s recollection of his 
own experience ? What is there to remind us of his poems ? Give 
some of his generalizations on life to be found in the book ? What 
sort of life did lie live ? What were his most striking characteris- 
tics ? 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD , 1 IN WHICH 
A KINDRED LIKENESS PREVAILS, AS WEfiL OF MINDS AS OF 
PERSONS. 

I was ever of opinion that the honest man who married and 
brought up a large family did more service than he who con- 
tinued single and only talked 3 of population. From this 
motive, I had scarcely taken orders 3 a year before I began to 
think seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife as she did 
her wedding-gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but for such 
qualities as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a 
good-natured notable 4 woman; and as for breeding, there were 
few country ladies who at that time could show more. She 
could read any English hook without much spelling; and for 
pickling, preserving, and cookery, none could excel her. She 
prided herself much also upon being an excellent contriver 
in housekeeping; yet I could never find that we grew richer 
with all her contrivances. 

However, we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness 
increased with age. There was, in fact, nothing that could 
make us angry with the world or each other. We had an ele- 
gant house situated in a fine country, and a good neighbor- 
hood. The year was spent in moral or rural amusements, in 

1 Wakefield is a town in Yorkshire. * 2 i.e did nothing more. 

3 entered the Holy Orders of the priest- 4 notable : capable and industrious as a 
hood. housewife. 


2 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


visiting our rich neighbors, or relieving such as were poor. 
We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo; all 
our adventures were by the fireside, and all our migrations 1 
from the blue bed to the brown. 

As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or 
stranger come to taste our gooseberry wine, for which we had 
great reputation; and I profess, with the veracity of an his- 
torian, that I never knew one of them to find fault with it. 
Our cousins, too, even to the fortieth remove, all remembered 
their affinity, without any help from the Herald’s Office , 2 
and came very frequently to see us. Some of them did us no 
great honor by these claims of kindred; for, literally speak- 
ing, we had the blind, the maimed, and the halt amongst the 
number. However, my wife always insisted that, as they were 
the same flesh and blood with us, they should sit with us at 
the same table . 3 So that if we had not very rich, we generally 
had very happy friends about us; for this remark will hold 
good through life, that the poorer the guest, the better 
pleased he ever is with being treated: and as some men gaze 
with admiration at the colors of a tulip, and others are smit- 
ten with the wing of a butterfly, so I was by nature an admirer 
of happy human faces. However, when any one of our rela- 
tions was found to be a person of very bad character, a trouble- 
some guest, or one we desired to get rid of, upon his leaving 
my house for the first time I ever took care to lend him a 
riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes a horse of small 
value, and I always had the satisfaction of finding he never 
came back to return them. By this the house was cleared of 
such as we did not like; but never was the family of Wake- 
field known to turn the traveller or the poor dependent out 
of doors. 

1 in the rearrangements of the house- 3 Cf. “The Deserted Village,” 11. 153, 154: 

hold. “ The ruined spendthrift, now no longer 

2 an establishment in England of which proud, 

the chief business now is to keep a record Claimed kindred there, and had his claims 
of all noble and gentle families. allowed.” 


THE DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD. 3 


Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness, 
not but that we sometimes had those little rubs which Provi- 
dence sends to enhance the value of its other favors. My 
orchard was often robbed by schoolboys, and my wife’s cus- 
tards plundered by the cats or the children. The Squire 
would sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my 
sermon, or his lady return my wife’s civilities at church with 
a mutilated 1 courtesy. But we soon got over the uneasiness 
caused by such accidents, and usually in three or four days we 
began to wonder how they vexed us. 

My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were 
educated without softness, so they were at once well formed 
and healthy: my sons hardy and active, my daughters dutiful 
and blooming. When I stood in the midst of the little circle 
which promised to be the supports of my declining age, I 
could not avoid repeating the famous story of Count Abens- 
berg, who, in Henry II. ’s progress through Germany, while 
other courtiers came with their treasures, brought his thirty- 
two children, and presented them to his sovereign as the most 
valuable offering he had to bestow. In this manner, though 
I had but six, I considered them as a very valuable present 
made to my country, and consequently looked upon it as my 
debtor. Our eldest son was named George, after his uncle, 
who left us ten thousand pounds. Our second child, a girl, 
I intended to call after her Aunt Grissel; but my wife, who 
had been reading romances, insisted upon her being called 
Olivia. In less than another year we had a daughter again, 
and now I was determined that Grissel should be her name; 
but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand godmother, the 
girl was, by her directions, called Sophia; so that we had two 
romantic names in the family; but I solemnly protest I had 
no hand in it. Moses was our next, and after an interval of 
twelve years, we had two sons more. 

It would be fruitless to deny my exultation when I saw my 

1 Her courtesy was cut short; i.e ., she did not show as much civility as she might have. 


4 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


little ones about me; but the vanity and the satisfaction of 
my wife were even greater than mine. When our visitors 
would usually say, 4 4 Well, upon my word, Mrs. Primrose, you 
have the finest children in the whole country 44 Ay, neigh- 
bor,” she would answer, 44 they are as Heaven made them, 
handsome enough, if they be good enough; for handsome is 
that handsome does.” And then she would bid the girls hold 
up their heads; who, to conceal nothing, were certainly very 
handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling a circumstance 
with me that I should scarce have remembered to mention it, 
had it not been a general topic of conversation in the country. 
Olivia, now about eighteen, had that luxuriancy of beauty 
with which painters generally draw Hebe, 1 — open, sprightly, 
and commanding. Sophia’s features were not so striking at 
first, but often did more certain execution; for they were 
soft, modest, and alluring. The one vanquished by a single 
blow, the other by efforts successively repeated. 

The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn 
of her features, at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia 
wished for many lovers, Sophia to secure one. Olivia was 
often affected from too great a desire to please. Sopbia even 
repressed excellence, from her fears to offend. The one enter- 
tained me with her vivacity when I was gay, the other with 
her sense when I was serious. But these qualities were never 
carried to excess in either, and I have often seen them ex- 
change characters for a whole day together. A suit of mourn- 
ing has transformed my coquette into a prude, and a new set 
of ribbons given her younger sister more than natural vivacity. 
My eldest son, George, was bred at Oxford , 3 as I intended him 
for one of the learned professions . 3 My second boy, Moses, 
whom I designed for business, received a sort of miscellaneous 

1 Hebe was the cup-bearer of the gods of 3 The church, the bar, and medicine were 

Olympus. She is generally presented as the regarded as “ learned ” professions, such as 
picture of health and youthful beauty. required a scholastic education, and more 

2 Oxford and Cambridge are the two especially a knowledge of the classical lan- 

oldest English Universities. guages. 


FAMILY MISFORTUNES. 


5 


education at home. But it would be needless to attempt 
describing the particular characters of young people that had 
seen but very little of the world. In short, a family likeness 
prevailed through all, and, properly speaking, they had but 
one character, that of being all equally generous, credulous, 
simple, and inoffensive. 


CHAPTER II. 

FAMILY MISFORTUNES. THE LOSS OF FORTUNE ONLY SERVES 
TO INCREASE THE PRIDE OF THE WORTHY. 

The temporal concerns of our family were chiefly com- 
mitted to my wife’s management; as to the spiritual, I took 
them entirely under my own direction. The profits of my 
living, which amounted to but thirty-five pounds a year, I 
gave to the orphans and widows of the clergy of our diocese; 
for having a sufficient fortune 1 of my own, I was careless of 
temporalities, and felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty 
without reward. I also set a resolution of keeping no curate , 2 
and of being acquainted with every man in the parish, exhort- 
ing the married men to temperance, and the bachelors to 
matrimony; so that in a few years it was a common saying, 
that there were three strange wants at Wakefield, a parson 
wanting pride, young men wanting wives, and ale-houses 
wanting customers. 

Matrimony was always one of my favorite topics, and I 
wrote several sermons to prove its utility and happiness; but 
there was a peculiar tenet which I made a point of support- 
ing; for I maintained, with Whiston , 8 that it was unlawful for 
a priest of the Church of England, after the death of his first 
wife, to take a second; or, to express it in one word, I valued 
myself upon 4 being a strict monogamist. 


i See p. 10. 

3 a clergyman who assists the rector. 


8 an English theologian of the time. 
. 4 was proud of. 


6 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


I was early initiated into this important dispute, on which 
so many laborious volumes have been written. I published 
some tracts upon the subject myself, which, as they never 
sold, I have the consolation of thinking are read only by the 
happy few. Some of my friends called this my weak side; 
but, alas! they had not like me made it the subject of long 
contemplation. The more I reflected upon it, the more im- 
portant it appeared. I even went a step beyond Whiston in 
displaying my principles: as he had engraven upon his wife’s 
tomb that she was the only wife of William Whiston, so I 
wrote a similar epitaph for my wife, though still living, in 
which I extolled her prudence, economy, and obedience till 
death ; and having got it copied fair, with an elegant frame, 
it was placed over the chimney-piece, where it answered sev- 
eral very useful purposes. It admonished my wife of her 
duty to me, and my fidelity to her; it inspired her with a 
passion for fame, and constantly put her in mind of her end. 

It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often recom- 
mended that my eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed 
his affections upon the daughter of a neighboring clergyman, 
who was a dignitary in the Church, and in circumstances to 
give her a large fortune; but fortune was her smallest accom- 
plishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all, except 
my two daughters, to be completely pretty. Her youth, 
health, and innocence were still heightened 1 by a complexion 
so transparent, and such a happy sensibility of look, that even 
age could not gaze with indifference. As Mr. Wilmot knew 
that I could make a very handsome settlement 2 on my son, he 
was not averse to the match; so both families lived together 
in all that harmony which generally precedes an expected 
alliance. Being convinced by experience that the days of 
courtship are the most happy of our lives, I was willing 
enough to lengthen the period; and the various amusements 
which the young couple every day shared in each other’s com- 

1 brought still higher. 2 a sum of money given in legal form, generally at marriage. 


FAMILY MISFORTUNES. 


7 


pany seemed to increase their passion. We were generally 
awakened in the morning by music, and on fine days rode 
a-hunting . 1 The hours between breakfast and dinner the 
ladies devoted to dress and study; they usually read a page, 
and then gazed at themselves in the glass/ which even philoso- 
phers might own often presented the page of greatest beauty. 
At dinner my wife took the lead ; for as she always insisted 
upon carving everything herself, it being her mother’s way, 
she gave us upon these occasions the history of every dish. 
When we had dined, to prevent the ladies leaving us , 3 I 
generally ordered the table to be removed ; 4 and sometimes, 
with the music master’s assistance, the girls would give us a 
very agreeable concert. Walking out, drinking tea, country 
dances, and forfeits shortened the rest of the day, without the 
assistance of cards, as I hated all manner of gaming, except 
backgammon, at which my old friend and I sometimes took 
a two-pe nny hit . 6 ,' Nor can I here pass over an ominous cir- 
cumstance 6 that happened the last time we played together: 
I only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw a deuce ace 

five times running. 7 *? 

Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at last it was 
thought convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the young 
couple, who seemed earnestly to desire it. During the prep- 
arations for the wedding, I need not describe the busy impor- 
tance of my wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters; in fact, 
my attention was fixed on another object, the completing a 
tract which I intended shortly to publish in defence of my 
favorite principle/ As I looked upon this as a masterpiece, 

1 either fox-hunting or stag-hunting, then versal. Dinner was often served in a parlor, 

as now the characteristic amusement of the a table being brought in for the purpose. 
English country gentry. 5 a chance. 

2 The Vicar is constant in his delicate 8 Dr. Primrose calls it an ominous cir- 

sarcasm on women. cumstance to have such a remarkable piece 

3 It was and is still the English custom of luck. 

for the ladies to leave the table after dessert 7 He needed only to throw as low as 
and for the gentlemen to remain over the four, but actually threw three (a two and a 
wine. one). 

4 A separate dining-room was not uni- 8 that of one marriage only. 


8 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


both for argument and style, I could not in the pride of my 
heart avoid showing it to my old friend Mr. Wilmot, as I 
made no doubt of receiving his approbation; but too late I 
discovered that he was most violently attached to the contrary 
opinion, and with good reason; for he was at that time 
actually courting a fourth wife. This, as may be expected, 
produced a dispute attended with some acrimony, which 
threatened to interrupt our intended alliance; but on the day 
before that appointed for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss 
the subject at large. 

It was managed with proper spirit on both sides: he asserted 
that I was heterodox 1 ; I retorted the charge; he replied, and 
I rejoined. In the mean time, while the controversy was hot- 
test, I was called out by one of my relations, who, with a face 
of concern, advised me to give up the dispute, and allow the 
old gentleman to be a husband if he could, at least till my 
son’s wedding was over. 

“How,” cried I, “relinquish the cause of truth, and let 
him be a husband, already driven to the very verge of absur- 
dity! You might as well advise me to give up my fortune as 
my argument.” 

“That fortune,” returned my friend, “I am now sorry to 
inform you is almost nothing. The merchant in town, in 
whose hands your money was lodged, has gone off, to avoid 
a statute of bankruptcy, and it is thought has not left a shil- 
ling in the pound. I was unwilling to shock you or the family 
with the account till after the wedding: but now it may serve 
to moderate your warmth in the argument; for, I suppose, 
your own prudence will enforce the necessity of dissembling, 
at least till your son has the young lady’s fortune secure.” 

“ Well,” returned I, “ if what you tell me be true, and if 
I am to be a beggar, it shall never make me a rascal , 2 or in- 
duce me to disavow my principles. I’ll go this moment and 

1 of a doctrine other than that approved 2 i.e., so far as to allow his son to marry 
by the Church. under false pretences. 


A MIGRATION. 


9 


inform the company of my circumstances; and as for the 
argument, I even here retract my former concessions in the 
old gentleman’s favor, nor will I allow him now to be a hus- 
band either de jure, de facto , 1 or in any sense of the expression. 

It would be endless to describe the different sensations of 
both families when I divulged the news of our misfortune; 
but what others felt was slight to what the lovers appeared to 
endure. Mr. Wilmot, who seemed before sufficiently inclined 
to break off the match, was by this blow soon determined; 
one virtue he had in perfection, which was prudence, too often 
the only virtue that is left us unimpaired at seventy-two. 

CHAPTER III. 

A MIGRATION. THE FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES OF OUR 
LIVES ARE GENERALLY FOUND AT LAST TO BE OF OUR 
OWN PROCURING. 

The only hope of our family now was that the report of 
our misfortunes might be malicious or premature; but a letter 
from my agent in town soon came with a confirmation of every 
particular. The loss of fortune to myself alone would have 
been trifling; the only uneasiness I felt was for my family, 
who were to be humble without such an education as could 
render them callous to contempt. 

Near a fortnight passed away before I attempted to restrain 
their affliction; for premature consolation is but the remem- 
brancer of sorrow. During this interval, my thoughts were 
employed on some future means of supporting them; and at 
last a small cure 2 of fifteen pounds a year was offered me in a 
distant neighborhood, where I could still enjoy my principles 
without molestation. With this proposal I joyfully closed, hav- 
ing determined to increase my salary by managing a little farm. 
Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get 

1 by law or in fact. 2 The benefice of a clergyman was called a cure, sc. of souls. 


10 


THE YICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


together the wrecks of my fortune: and, all debts collected 
and paid, out of fourteen thousand pounds we had now but 
four hundred remaining. My chief attention, therefore, was 
next to bring down the pride 1 of my family to their circum- 
stances; for I well knew that aspiring beggary is wretched- 
ness itself. “ You cannot be ignorant, my children,” cried I, 
“ that no prudence of ours could have prevented our late mis- 
fortune; but prudence may do much in disappointing its 
effects. We are now poor, my fondlings, and wisdom bids 
us conform to our humble situation. Let us then, without 
repining, give up those splendors with which numbers are 
wretched, and seek in humbler circumstances that peace with 
which all may be happy. The poor live pleasantly without 
our help, and we are not so imperfectly formed as to be in- 
capable of living without theirs. No, my children, let us 
from this moment give up all pretensions to gentility ; 2 we 
have still enough left for happiness, if we are wise; and let 
us draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune.” 

As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send 
him to town, where his abilities might contribute to our sup- 
port and his own. The separation of friends and families is, 
perhaps, one of the most distressful circumstances attendant 
on penury. The day soon arrived on which we were to dis- 
perse for the first time. My son, after taking leave of his 
mother and the rest, who mingled their tears with their 
kisses, came to ask a blessing from me. This I gave him 
from my heart, and which, added to five guineas, was all the 
patrimony I had now to bestow. 

“You are going, my boy,” cried I, “to London on foot, 
in the manner Hooker , 3 your great ancestor, travelled there 

1 To make them realize their circum- taking a lower position in society, and that 

stances. it was idle to pretend to retain that which 

2 In the England of that day the lines he had formerly held. 

between the nobility, the gentry, and the 3 Richard Hooker was an English scholar 
classes beneath were more strongly marked and theologian of the sixteenth century, 
than we can easily imagine. In losing his famous for a great work on Ecclesiastical 
fortune, Dr. Primrose felt that he was Polity. 


A MIGRATION. 


11 


before you. Take from me the same horse that was given 
him by the good Bishop Jewel/ this staff, and take this book 
too ; it will be your comfort on the way : these two lines in it 
are worth a million, I have been young, and noio am old ; yet 
never saw I the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging 
their bread? Let this be your consolation as you travel on. 
Go, my boy; whatever be thy fortune, let me see thee once 
a year; still keep a good heart, and farewell.” As he was 
possessed of integrity and honor, I was under no apprehen- 
sions from 3 throwing him naked into the amphitheatre of life; 
for I knew he would act a good part whether he rose or fell. 

His departure only prepared the way for our own, which 
arrived a few days afterwards. The leaving a neighborhood 
in which we had enjoyed so many hours of tranquillity was 
not without a tear which scarce fortitude itself could sup- 
press. Besides, a journey of seventy miles, to a family that 
had hitherto never been above ten from home, filled us with 
apprehension ; and the cries of the poor, who followed us for 
some miles, contributed to increase it. The first day’s jour- 
ney brought us in safety within thirty miles of our future 
retreat, and we put up for the night at an obscure inn in a 
village by the way. When we were shown a room, I desired 
the landlord, in my usual way, to let us have his company, 
with which he complied, as what he drank would increase the 
bill next morning. He knew, however, the whole neighbor- 
hood to which I was removing, particularly Squire Thornhill, 
who was to be my landlord, and who lived within a few miles 
of the place. This gentleman he described as one who desired 
to know little more of the world than the pleasures it afforded, 
being particularly remarkable for his attachment to the fair 
sex. Though this account gave me some pain, it had a very 
different effect upon my daughters, whose features seemed to 
brighten with the expectation of an approaching triumph: 

1 John Jewel was Bishop of Salisbury in 3 Ps. xxxvii. 25. 

the time of Elizabeth. 3 The idiom is not now usual. 


12 


THE YICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


nor was my wife less pleased and confident of their allure- 
ments and virtue. While our thoughts were thus employed, 
the hostess entered the room to inform her husband that the 
strange gentleman, who had been two days in the house, 
wanted 1 money, and could not satisfy them for his reck- 
oning. 

“ Want money ! ” replied the host, “ that must be impossi- 
ble; for it was no later than yesterday he paid three guineas 
to our beadle to spare an old broken soldier that was to be 
whipped through the town for dog-stealing.” The hostess, 
however, still persisting in her first assertion, he was prepar- 
ing to leave the room, swearing that he would be satisfied 2 one 
way or another, when I begged the landlord to introduce me 
to a stranger of so much charity as he described. With this 
he complied, showing in a gentleman who seemed to be about 
thirty, dressed in clothes that once were laced . 3 His person 
was well formed, though his face was marked with the lines 
of thinking. He had something short and dry in his address , 4 
and seemed not to understand ceremony, or to despise it. 
Upon the landlord’s leaving the room, I could not avoid 
expressing my concern to the stranger at seeing a gentleman 
in such circumstances, and offered him my purse to satisfy 
the present demand. 

“I take it with all my heart, sir,” replied he, “and am 
glad that a late oversight in giving what money I had about 
me has shown me that there is still some benevolence left 
among us. I must, however, previously entreat being in- 
formed of the name and residence of my benefactor, in order 
to remit it as soon as possible.” In this I satisfied him fully, 
not only mentioning my name and late misfortune, but the 
place to which I was going to remove. “ This,” cried he, 
“ happens still more luckily than I hoped for, as I am going 
the same way myself, having been detained here two days by 


1 lacked. 

2 would get what he ought to have. 


3 in the then fashion of the upper classes. 

4 mode of speaking. 


A MIGRATION. 


13 


the floods, which I hope by to-morrow will be found pass- 
able. ’’ I testified the pleasure I should have in his company, 
and my wife and daughters joining in entreaty, he was pre- 
vailed upon to stay supper . 1 The stranger’s conversation, 
which was at once pleasing and instructive, induced me to 
wish for a continuance of it; hut it was now high time to 
retire and take refreshment against the fatigues of the follow- 
ing day. 

The next morning we all set forward together: my family 
on horseback, while Mr. Burchell, our new companion, walked 
along the foot-path by the roadside, observing, with a smile, 
that as we were ill-mounted, he would be too generous to 
attempt leaving us behind. As the floods were not yet sub- 
sided, we were obliged to hire a guide, who trotted on before, 
Mr. Burchell and I bringing up the rear. We lightened the 
fatigues of the road with philosophical disputes, which he 
seemed to understand perfectly. But what surprised me most 
was that, though he was a money-borrower, he defended his 
opinions with as much obstinacy as if he had been my patron . 2 
He now and then also informed me to whom the different 
seats 3 belonged that lay in our view as we travelled the road. 

“ That,” cried he, pointing to a very magnificent house 
which stood at some distance, “ belongs to Mr. Thornhill, a 
young gentleman who enjoys a large fortune, though entirely 
dependent on the will of his uncle. Sir William Thornhill, 
a gentleman who, content with a little himself, permits his 
nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town.” 

“ What! ” cried I, “is my young landlord then the nephew 
of a man whose virtues, generosity, and singularities are so 
universally known? I have heard Sir William Thornhill rep- 
resented as one of the most generous yet whimsical 4 men in 
the kingdom; a man of consummate benevolence ” 

“Something, perhaps, too much so,” replied Mr. Burchell; 


i the old expression, 
a See p. 117. 


3 country houses and estates. 

4 of unaccountable fancies and ideas. 


14 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


“at least he carried benevolence to an excess when young; 
for his passions were then strong, and as they all were upon 
the side of virtue, they led it up to a romantic extreme . 1 He 
early began to aim at the qualifications of the soldier and 
scholar; was soon distinguished in the army, and had some 
reputation among men of learning. Adulation ever follows 
the ambitious; for such alone receive most pleasure from flat- 
tery. He was surrounded with crowds, who showed him .only 
one side of their character; so that he began to lose a regard 
for private interest in universal sympathy. He loved all 
mankind; for fortune prevented him from knowing that there 
were rascals. Physicians tell us of a disorder in which the 
whole body is so exquisitely sensible that the slightest touch 
gives pain; what some have thus suffered in their persons, 
this gentleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress, 
whether real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, and his 
soul labored under a sickly 2 sensibility of the miseries of others. 
Thus disposed to relieve, it will be easily conjectured he found 
numbers disposed to solicit; his profusions began to impair 
his fortune, but not his good nature; that , 3 indeed, was seen 
to increase as the other seemed to decay; he grew improvi- 
dent as he grew poor; and though he talked like a man of 
sense, his actions were those of a fool. Still, however, being 
surrounded with importunity , 4 and no longer able to satisfy 
every request that was made him, instead of money he gave 
promises. They were all he had to bestow, and he had not 
resolution enough to give any man pain by a denial. By this 
means he drew round him crowds of dependents, whom he 
was sure to disappoint, yet wished to relieve. These hung 
upon him for a time, and left him with merited reproaches 
and contempt. But in proportion as he became contemptible s 
to others, he became despicable 6 to himself. His mind had 


1 a point which seemed fine to think of, 2 his good-natured disposition, 

but was really silly. * people who were importunate. 

2 We should now say ” morbid.” 6 What is the difference in meaning ? 


A MIGRATION. 


15 


leaned upon their adulation, and that support taken away, he 
could find no pleasure in the applause of his heart, which he 
had never learnt to reverence itself. The world now began to 
wear a different aspect; the flattery of his friends began to 
dwindle into simple approbation, that soon took the more 
friendly form of advice, and advice when rejected ever begets 
reproaches. He now found that such friends as benefits had 
gathered round him were by no means the most estimable; it 
was now found that a man’s own heart must be ever given to 
gain that of another. I now found that 1 — but I forget what 
I was going' to observe: in short, sir, he resolved to respect 
himself, and laid down a plan of restoring his shattered for- 
tune. For this purpose, in his own whimsical manner, he 
travelled through Europe on foot, and before he attained the 
age of thirty, his circumstances were more affluent than ever. 
At present, therefore, his bounties are more rational and mod- 
erate than before; but still he preserves the character of a 
humorist , 2 and finds most pleasure in eccentric virtues.” 

My attention was so much taken up by Mr. Burchell’s 
account that I scarce looked forward as we went along, till we 
were alarmed by the cries of my family, when turning, I per- 
ceived my youngest 3 daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, 
thrown from her horse, and struggling with the torrent. She 
had sunk twice, nor was it in my power to disengage myself 
in time to bring her relief. My sensations were even too vio- 
lent to permit my attempting her rescue: she would have cer- 
tainly perished had not my companion, perceiving her danger, 
instantly plunged in to her relief, and, with some difficulty, 
brought her in safety to the opposite shore. By taking the 
current a little farther up, the rest of the family got safely 
over, where we had an opportunity of joining our acknowl- 
edgments to hers. Her gratitude may be more readily imag- 


1 a curious slip of the tongue on the part a man of humors or strange individual 

of Mr. Burchell. fancies. 

2 The older conception of a humorist was 8 The comparative would be more correct 


16 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


ined than described; she thanked her deliverer more with 
looks than words, and continued to lean upon liis arm, as if 
still willing to receive assistance. My wife also hoped one 
day to have the pleasure of returning his kindness at her own 
house. Thus, after we were all refreshed at the next inn, 
and had dined together, as he was going to a different part of 
the country, he took leave; and we pursued our journey, my 
wife observing, as we went, that she liked Mr. Burchell ex- 
tremely, and protesting that, if he had birth and fortune to 
entitle him to match into such a family as ours, she knew no 
man she would sooner fix upon. I could not but smile to 
hear her talk in this innocent strain: one almost at the verge 
of beggary, thus to assume language of the most insulting 
affluence, might excite the ridicule of ill-nature; but I was 
never much displeased with those delusions 1 that tend to make 
us more happy. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A PROOF THAT EVEN - THE HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAY GRANT 
HAPPINESS AND DELIGHT, WHICH DEPEND NOT ON CIR- 
CUMSTANCE BUT CONSTITUTION. 

The place of our new retreat was in a little neighborhood, 
consisting of farmers, who tilled their own grounds, and were 
equal strangers to opulence and poverty . 2 As they had almost 
all the conveniences of life within themselves, they seldom 
visited towns or cities in search of superfluity. Remote from 
the polite , 3 they still retained a primeval simplicity of man- 
ners, and, frugal by long habit, scarce knew that temperance 
was a virtue. They wrought 4 with cheerfulness on days of 
labor: but observed festivals as intervals of idleness and plea- 
sure. They kept up the Christmas carol, sent true love-knots 

1 They are nice enough while they last, “The Deserted Village,” 1. 143 : “Remote 

and they often do last until death. from towns he ran his godly race.” 

2 They were well-to-do. < an older form of ivorked : it occurs 

3 those having the polish of city life. Cf. again on p. 33. 


THE HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAY GRANT HAPPINESS. 17 


on Valentine morning, ate pancakes on Shrovetide, showed 
their wit on the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on 
Michaelmas Eve. Being apprised of our approach, the whole 
neighborhood came out to meet their minister, dressed in their 
finest clothes, and preceded by a pipe and tabor . 1 Also a feast 
was provided for our reception, at which we sat cheerfully 
down; and what the conversation wanted in wit, we made up 
in laughter. 

Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping 
hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood 2 behind and a 
prattling river before; on one side a meadow, on the other a 
green. My farm consisted, of about twenty acres of excellent 
land, having given 8 an hundred pound for my predecessor’s 
good will . 4 Nothing could exceed the neatness of my little 
inclosures; the elms and hedgerows appearing with inexpres- 
sible beauty. My house consisted of but one story, and was 
covered with thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness; 
the walls on the inside were nicely whitewashed, and my 
daughters undertook to adorn them with pictures of their 
own designing. Though the same room served us for parlor 
and kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it 
was kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and 
coppers being well scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on 
the shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved, and did not seem 
to want rich furniture. There were three other apartments, 
one for my wife and me, another for our two daughters, within b 
our own, and the third, with two beds, for the rest of my 
children. 

The little republic to which I gave laws 8 was regulated in 
the following manner: by sunrise we all assembled in our 
common apartment, the fire being previously kindled by the 

1 a little drum. 6 Farther in as one came from the front 

2 groups of small trees. door. 

3 a careless construction. 6 Like Cato, give his little senate laws. 

4 Dr. Primrose had paid this sum to be —Pope, Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot , 209. 
allowed to take the place. 


18 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


servant. After we had saluted each other with proper cere- 
mony, for I always thought fit to keep up some mechanical 1 
forms of good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys 
friendship, we all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave 
us another day. This duty being performed, my son and I 
went to pursue our usual industry abroad, while my wife and 
daughters employed themselves in providing breakfast, which 
was always ready at a certain time. I allowed half an hour 
for this meal, and an hour for dinner; which time was taken 
up in innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in 
philosophical arguments between my son and me. 

As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labors 
after it was gone down, but returned home to the expecting 
family; wliera smiling looks, a neat hearth, and pleasant fire 
were prepared for our reception. Nor were we without other 
guests: sometimes Farmer Flamborough, our talkative neigh- 
bor, and often the blind piper, would pay us a visit, and taste 
our gooseberry wine; for the making of which we had lost 
neither the receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people 
had several ways of being good company; while one played 
the pipes, another would sing some soothing ballad, 2 Johnny 
Armstrong’s Last Good Night, or The Cruelty of Barbara 
Allen. The night was concluded in the manner we began the 
morning, my youngest boys being appointed to read the les- 
sons of the day; and he that read loudest, distinctest, and 
best was to have a halfpenny on Sunday to put in the poor’s 
box. 

When Sunday came it was indeed a day of finery, which all 
my sumptuary 3 edicts could not restrain. How well soever 1 
fancied my lectures against pride had conquered the vanity of 
my daughters, yet I still found them secretly attached to all 

1 regular. friend of Goldsmith’s, published a collec- 

2 These ballads maybe found in any good tion of them in 1765, which became very 
collection. At the time of Goldsmith’s famous. It is called “ Reliques of Ancient 
writing there was a revival of interest in English Poetry.” 

the old popular ballads. Bishop Percy, a 3 relating to the expenses of life. 


THE HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAY GRANT HAPPINESS. 19 

their former finery; they still loved laces, ribands, bugles , 1 and 
catgut 2 ; my wife herself retained a passion for her crimson 
paduasoy , 3 because I formerly happened to say it became her. 

The first Sunday in particular their behavior served to 
mortify me. I had desired my girls the preceding night to be 
dressed early the next day; for I always loved to be at church 
a good while before the rest of the congregation. They punc- 
tually obeyed my directions; but when we were to assemble 
in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daugh- 
ters, dressed out in all their former splendor: their hair plas- 
tered up with pomatum , 4 their faces patched 5 to taste, their 
trains bundled up into a heap behind, and rustling at every 
motion. I could not help smiling at their vanity, particularly 
that of my Avife, from whom I expected more discretion. In 
this exigence , 6 therefore, my only resource was to order my 
son, with an important air, to call our coach. The girls were 
amazed at the command; but I repeated it with more solem- 
nity than before. 

4 4 Surely, my dear, you jest,” cried my wife, “ we can walk 
it perfectly well: Ave want 7 no coach to carry us now.” 

“You mistake, child,” returned I, “we do want a coach; 
for if we walk to church in this trim, the very children in the 
parish will hoot after us for a show.” 

“Indeed,” replied my wife, “I always imagined that my 
Charles was fond of seeing his children neat and handsome 
about him.” 

“ You may be as neat as you please,” interrupted I, “and 
I shall love you the better for it; but all this is not neatness, 
but frippery . 6 These ruffiings, and pinkings, and patchings 
will only make us hated by all the Avives of all our neighbors. 

i shining black glass beads. ten cut in curious shapes, were fashionable 


at this time, and were worn whether there 


2 canvas for worsted work. 

3 a kind of silk. 

4 Pomatum and powder were commonly' 


was reason for court-plaster or not. 
8 sudden occasion. 

7 need. 


used on the hair. 


6 Little pieces of black court-plaster, of- 8 silly extravagance of clothing. 


20 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


No, my children,” continued I, more gravely, “those gowns 
may be altered into something of a plainer cut; for finery is 
very unbecoming in us, who want the means of decency. I 
don’t know whether such flouncing and shredding is becom- 
ing even in the rich, if we consider, upon a moderate calcula- 
tion, that the nakedness of the indigent world may be clothed 
from the trimmiugs of the vain.” 

This remonstrance had the proper effect; they went with 
great composure, that very instant, to change their dress; and 
the next day I had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, 
at their own request, employed in cutting up their trains into 
Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two little ones; and 
what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved 
by being thus curtailed . 1 

CHAPTER Y. 

A NEW AND GREAT ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED. WHAT 

WE PLACE MOST HOPES UPON GENERALLY PROVES MOST 

FATAL. 

At a small distance from the house, my predecessor had 
made a seat, oversliaded by a hedge of hawthorn and honey- 
suckle. Here, when the weather was fine and our labor soon 
finished, we usually all sat together, to enjoy an extensive 
landscape in the calm of the evening. Here, too, we drank 
tea, which now was become an occasional 2 banquet; and as 
we had it but seldom it diffused a new joy, the preparations 
for it being made with no small share of bustle and ceremony. 
On these occasions our two little ones always read for us, and 
they were regularly served after we had done. Sometimes, to 
give a variety to our amusements, the girls sung to the guitar; 

1 It would seem, however, that the main 2 not a regular thing, as it had been ; tea 
objection to the fine clothing had been that was costly in those days, an ordinary article 

it was not suitable to their station. costing several dollars a pound. 


A NEW AND GREAT ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED. 21 


and while they thus formed a little concert, my wife and I 
would stroll down the sloping field, that was embellished 
with bluebells and centaury , 1 talk of our children with rap- 
ture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both health and har- 
mony. 

In this manner we began to find that every situation in life 
might bring its own peculiar pleasures; every morning waked 
us to a repetition of toil; but the evening repaid it with 
vacant hilarity . 2 

It was about the beginning of the autumn, on a holiday, 
for I kept such 3 as intervals of relaxation from labor, that I 
had drawn out my family to our usual place of amusement, 
and our young musicians began their usual concert. As we 
were thus engaged, we saw a stag bound nimbly by, within 
about twenty paces of where we were sitting, and by its pant- 
ing it seemed pressed by the hunters. We had not much 
time to reflect upon the poor animal’s distress, when we per- 
ceived the dogs and horsemen come sweeping along at some 
distance behind, and making the very path it had taken. I 
was instantly for returning in with my family; but either 
curiosity, or surprise, or some more hidden motive, held my 
wife and daughters to their seats. The huntsman, who rode 
foremost, passed us with great swiftness, followed by four or 
five persons more, who seemed in equal haste. At last, a 
young gentleman of a more genteel 4 appearance than the rest 
came forward, and for a while regarding us, instead of pur- 
suing the chase, stopped short, and giving his horse to a ser- 
vant who attended, approached us with a careless superior air. 
He seemed to want 5 no introduction, but was going to salute 
my daughters, as one certain of a kind reception; but they 
had early learnt the lesson of looking presumption out of 
which he let us know his name was 



4 The word has now acquired rather a con- 
temptuous meaning, which it did not at 
first have. 


2 mirth lacking care. 

3 observed them. 


5 feel the need of ; cf. the different uses of the word on p. 5. 


22 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


/Thornhill, and that he was the owner 1 of the estate that lay 
for some extent round us. He again therefore offered to 
salute the female part of the family, and such was the power 
of fortune and fine clothes that he found no second repulse. 
As his address, though confident, was easy, we soon became 
more familiar; and perceiving musical instruments lying near, 
he begged to be favored with a song. As I did not approve 
of such disproportioned acquaintance, I winked upon my 
daughters in order to prevent their compliance; but my hint 
was counteracted by one from their mother; so that, with a 
cheerful air, they gave us a favorite song of Dryden’s . 2 Mr. 
Thornhill seemed highly delighted with their performance 
and choice, and then took up the guitar himself. He played 
but very indifferently; however, my eldest daughter repaid his 
former applause with interest, and assured him that his tones 
were louder than even those of her master. At this compli- 
ment he bowed, which she returned with a courtesy. He 
praised her taste, and she commended his understanding; an 
age 3 could not have made them better acquainted: while the 
fond mother, too, equally happy, insisted upon her landlord’s 
stepping in, and tasting a glass of her gooseberry. The whole 
family seemed earnest 4 to please him: my girls attempted to 
entertain' him with topics they thought most modern, while 
Moses, on the contrary, gave him a question or two from the 
ancients, for which he had the satisfaction of being laughed 
at; for he always ascribed to his wit that laughter which was 
lavished at his simplicity: my little ones were no less busy, 
and fondly stuck close to the stranger. All my endeavors 
could scarce keep their dirty fingers from handling and tar- 
nishing the lace & on his clothes, and lifting up the flaps of his 
pocket-holes, to see what was there. At the approach of even- 

1 He was their landlord : the estate really 4 the idiom has gone out of use. 

belonged to his uncle. See p. 13. 6 gold or silver lace : in the eighteenth 

3 the great poet of the end of the previou* century the dress of gentlemen was still very 
century : cf. p. 90. elaborate and costly. 

3 a long time. 


A NEW AND GREAT ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED. 23 


ing he took leave; but not till he had requested permission to 
renew his visit, which, as he was our landlord, we most readily 
agreed to. 

As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council on the 
conduct of the day. She was of opinion that it was a most 
fortunate hit; for that she had known even stranger things 
at last brought to bear . 1 She hoped again to see the day in 
which we might hold up our heads with the best of them; and 
concluded, she protested she could see no reason why the two 
Miss Wrinklers 2 should marry great fortunes, and her chil- 
dren get none. As this last argument was directed to me, I 
protested I could see no reason for it either, nor why Mr. 
Simpkins got the ten thousand pound prize in the lottery , 3 
and we sat down with a blank. 

“ But those,” added I, “ who either aim at husbands greater 
than themselves, or at the ten thousand pound prize, have 
been fools for their ridiculous claims, whether successful or 
not.” 

“I protest, Charles,” cried my wife, “ this is the way you 
always damp my girls and me when we are in spirits. Tell 
me, Sophy, my dear, what do you think of our new visitor ? 
Don’t you think he seemed to be good-natured ? ” 

“Immensely so, indeed, mamma,” replied she. “I think 
he has a great deal to say upon everything, and is never at a 
loss; and the more trifling the subject, the more he has to 
say; and what is more, I protest he is very handsome.” 

“Yes,” cried Olivia, “he is well enough for a man; but 
for my part, I don’t much like him, he is so extremely impu- 
dent and familiar; but on the guitar he is shocking.” These 
two last speeches I interpreted by contraries. I found by 
this, that Sophia internally despised, as much as Olivia 
secretly admired him. 

“Whatever maybe your opinions of him, my children,” 

1 ma de useful. 3 Lotteries were very common in the 

2 neighbors, perhaps, in their old home, eighteenth century. 


24 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


cried I, “to confess a truth, lie has not prepossessed me in 
his favor. Disproportioned friendships 1 ever terminate in 
disgust; and I thought, notwithstanding all his ease, that he 
seemed perfectly sensible of the distance between us. Let us 
keep to companions of our own rank. There is no character 
among men more contemptible than that of a fortune-hunter; 
and I can see no reason why fortune-hunting women should 
not be contemptible too. Thus, at best, it will be contempt 
if his views are honorable; but if they are otherwise! I 
should shudder but to think of that, for though I have no 
apprehensions from the conduct of my children, I think there 
are some from his character.” I would have proceeded, but 
for the interruption of a servant from the Squire, who, with 
his compliments, sent us a side of venison, and a promise to 
dine with us some days after. This well-timed present pleaded 
more powerfully in his favor than anything I had to say could 
obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied with just hav- 
ing pointed out danger, and leaving it to their own discretion 
to avoid it. That virtue which requires to be ever guarded is 
scarce worth the sentinel. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRESIDE. 

As we carried on the former dispute with some degree of 
warmth, in order to accommodate matters it was universally 
concluded upon that we should have a part of the venison for 
supper; and the girls undertook the task with alacrity. 

“I am sorry,” cried I, “that we have no neighbor or 
stranger to take a part in this good cheer; feasts of this kind 
acquire a double relish 3 from hospitality.” 


1 In this case friendships between those 2 And learn the luxury of doing good, 

of different wealth and position in the — The Traveller , 1. 22. 

world. 


THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRESIDE. 


25 


44 Bless me,” cried my wife, 44 here comes our good friend 
Mr. Burchell, that saved our Sophia, and that run you down 
fairly in the argument.” 

44 Confute me in argument, child!” cried I. 44 You mis- 
take there, my dear; I believe there are but few that can do 
that; I never dispute your abilities at making a goose-pie, and 
I beg you’ll leave argument to me.” As I spoke, poor Mr. 
Burchell entered the house, and was welcomed by the family, 
who shook him heartily by the hand, while little Dick offi- 
ciously reached him a chair. 

I was pleased with the poor man’s friendship for two rea- 
sons: because I knew that he wanted mine, and I knew him 
to be friendly as far as he was able. He was known in our 
neighborhood by the character of the poor Gentleman that 
would do no good when he was young, though he was not yet 
above thirty. He would at intervals talk with great good 
sense; but in general he was fondest of the company of chil- 
dren, whom he used to call harmless little men. He was 
famous, I found, for singing them ballads, and telling them 
stories; and seldom went without something in his pockets 
for them: a piece of ginger-bread or a halfpenny whistle. 
He generally came into our neighborhood once a year, and 
lived upon the neighbors’ hospitality. He sat down to supper 
among us, and my wife was not sparing of her gooseberry 
wine. The tale went round; he sung us old songs, and gave 
the children the story of the Buck of Beverland , 1 with the 
history of Patient Grissel . 3 The adventures of Catskin 3 next 
entertained them, and then Fair Rosamond’s 4 Bower. Our 
cock, which always crew at eleven, now told us it was time 
for repose; but an unforeseen difficulty started about lodging 
the stranger — all our beds were already taken up, and it was 

1 This story has not been traced. 3 a ballad story not unlike that of Cinder- 

2 a model of womanly and wifely obedi- ella. 

ence. The story exists in several places, 4 The daughter of Lord Clifford, for 
e.g ., the Clerk’s Tale in Chaucer. The whom Henry II. built a secret bower iu the 
name is more commonly Griselda. labyrinth of Woodstock. 


26 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


too late to send him to the next ale-house. In this dilemma 
little Dick offered him his part of the bed, if his brother Moses 
would let him lie 1 with him. 

“ And I,” cried Bill, “will give Mr. Burchell my part, if 
my sisters will take me to theirs.” 

“Well done, my good children,” cried I, “hospitality is 
one of the first Christian duties. The beast retires to its 
shelter, and the bird flies to its nest; but helpless man can 
only find refuge from his fellow creature. The greatest 
stranger in this world was He that came to save it. He never 
had a house, as if willing 2 to see what hospitality was left 
remaining amongst us. Deborah, my dear,” cried I to my 
wife, “give those boys a lump of sugar each, and let Dick’s 
be the largest, because he spoke first.” 

In the morning early I called out my whole family to help at 
saving an after-growth of hay, and our guest offering his assist- 
ance, he was accepted among the number. Our labors went 
on lightly; we turned the swath to the wind; I went fore- 
most, and the rest followed in due succession. I could not 
avoid, however, observing the assiduity of Mr. Burchell in 
assisting my daughter Sophia in her part of the task. When 
he had finished his own, he would join in hers, and enter into 
a close conversation; but I had too good an opinion of 
Sophia’s understanding, and was too well convinced of her 
ambition , 3 to be under any uneasiness from a man of broken 
fortunes. When we were finished for the day, Mr. Burchell 
was invited as on the night before ; but he refused, as he was 
to lie that night at a neighbor’s, to whose child he was carry- 
ing a whistle. When gone, our conversation at supper turned 
upon our late unfortunate guest. 

“ What a strong instance,” said I, “is that poor man of the 
miseries attending a youth of levity and extravagance! He 
by no means wants sense, which only serves to aggravate his 

1 to sleep ; so, often, through the book. 

3 to settle herself well in the world. 


2 desirous. 


THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRESIDE. 


27 


former folly. Poor, forlorn creature, where are now the rev- 
ellers, the flatterers, that he could once inspire and command ? 
Their former raptures at his wit are now converted into sar- 
casms at his folly: he is poor, and perhaps deserves poverty; 
for he has neither the ambition to be independent, nor the 
skill to be useful.” Prompted, perhaps, by some secret rea- 
sons, I delivered this observation with too much acrimony, 
which my Sophia gently reproved. 

“ Whatsoever his former conduct may be, papa, his circum- 
stances should exempt him from censure now. His present 
indigence is a sufficient punishment for former folly; and I 
have heard my papa himself say, that we should never strike 
one unnecessary blow at a victim over whom Providence 
already holds the scourge of its resentment.” 

“ You are right, Sophy,” cried my son Moses, “ and one of 
the ancients finely represents so malicious a conduct, by the 
attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas , 1 whose skin, the fable 
tells us, had been wholly stripped off by another. Besides, I 
don’t know if this poor man’s situation be so bad as my father 
would represent it. We are not to judge of the feelings of 
others, by what we might feel if in their place. However 
dark the habitation of the mole to our eyes, yet the animal 
itself finds the apartment sufficiently lightsome. And to con- 
fess a truth, this man’s mind seems fitted to his station; for I 
never heard any one more sprightly than he was to-day, when 
he conversed with you.” This was said without the least 
design; however, it excited a blush, which she strove to cover 
by an affected laugh, assuring him that she scarce took any 
notice of what he said to her; but that she believed he might 
once have been a very fine gentleman. The readiness with 
which she undertook to vindicate herself, and her blushing, 
were symptoms I did not internally approve; but I repressed 
my suspicions. 

1 Marsyas was flayed alive by Apollo because he had been so foolish as to strive with 
him in a musical contest. 


28 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


As we expected our landlord the next day, my wife went to 
make the venison pasty. Moses sat reading, while I taught 
the little ones: my daughters seemed equally busy with the 
rest; and I observed them for a good while cooking something 
over the fire. I at first supposed they were assisting their 
mother; but little Dick informed me, in a whisper, that they 
were making a wash for the face . 1 Washes of all kinds I had 
a natural antipathy to; for I knew that instead of mending 
the complexion, they spoiled it. I therefore approached my 
chair by sly degrees to the fire, and grasping the poker as if it 
wanted mending, seemingly by accident overturned the whole 
composition, and it was too late to begin another. 

CHAPTER VII. 

A TO WX WIT DESCRIBED. THE DULLEST FELLOWS MAY LEARH 
TO BE COMICAL FOR A HIGHT OR TWO. 

When the morning arrived on which we were to entertain 
our young landlord, it may be easily supposed what provisions 
were exhausted to make an appearance. It may also be con- 
jectured that my wife and daughters expanded their gayest 
plumage upon this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came with a 
couple of friends, his chaplain, and feeder . 2 The servants, 
who were numerous, he politely ordered to the next ale-house, 
but my wife, in the triumph of her heart, insisted on enter- 
taining them all; for which, by the by, the family was 
pinched for three weeks after. As Mr. Burchell had hinted 
to us the day before that he 3 was making some proposals of 
marriage to Miss Wilmot, my son George’s former mistress, 
this a good deal damped the heartiness of his reception: but 
accident in some measure relieved our embarrassment; for 

1 The Vicar was always on the lookout hill’s table, and paid for his board by being 
to see that his daughters were not absorbed assiduous and agreeable. Another meaning 
in the thought of appearances. given is that of feeder of the game-cocks, 

3 A sort of toady who fed at Mr. Thorn- 3 Squire Thornhill. 


A TOWN WIT DESCRIBED. 


29 


one of the company happening to mention her name, Mr. 
Thornhill observed with an oath that he never knew anything 
more absurd than calling such a fright a beauty. — “ For strike 
me ugly,” continued he, “ if I should not find as much pleasure 
in choosing my wife by the information of a lamp under the 
clock at St. Dunstan’s .” 1 At this he laughed, and so did 
we; the jests of the rich are ever successful. Olivia, too, 
could not avoid whispering, loud enough to he heard, that he 
had an infinite fund of humor. 

After dinner , 2 I began with my usual toast, the Church. 
For this I was thanked by the chaplain, as he said the Church 
was the only mistress of his affections. — “ Come, tell us hon- 
estly, Frank,” said the Squire, with his usual archness, 
“ suppose the Church, your present mistress, dressed in lawn 
sleeves , 3 on one hand, and Miss Sophia, with no lawn about 
her, on the other, which would you be for ? ” — “ For both, to 
be sure,” cried the chaplain. — “Eight, Frank,” cried the 
Squire, “for may this glass suffocate me, hut a fine girl is 
worth all the priestcraft in the nation. For what are tithes 
and tricks but an imposition, all a confounded imposture? — 
and I can prove it?” — “I wish you would,” cried my son 
Moses; “and I think,” continued he, “that I should be able 
to combat in the opposition.” — “Very well, sir,” cried the 
Squire, who immediately smoked 4 him, and winking on the 
rest of the company to prepare us for the sport, “ if you are 
for a cool argument upon that subject, I am ready to accept 
the challenge. And first, whether you are for managing it 
analogically 5 or dialogically ? ” — “I am for managing it 
rationally,” cried Moses, quite happy at being permitted to 
dispute. — “Good again,” cried the Squire, “and firstly, of 
the first: I hope you’ll not deny that whatever is, is. If you 

1 a church in London. 5 The long words and technical terms of 

2 After dinner it was usual to drink wine Squire Thornhill need not be explained, for 

and give toasts. they were used without much reference to 

3 part of the attire of a bishop. meaning, like his proposition concerning 

4 a slang term equivalent to “get on to.” the angles of a triangle. 


30 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


don’t grant me that, I can go no further.” — “Why,” re- 
turned Moses, “I think I may grant that, and make the best 
of it.” — “I hope, too,” returned the other, “you’ll grant 
that a part is less than the whole.” — “I grant that, too,” 
cried Moses, “it is but just and reasonable.” — “I hope,” 
cried the Squire, “you will not deny that the two angles of 
a triangle are equal to two right ones.” — “Nothing can be 
plainer,” returned t’other, and looked round with his usual 
importance. — “Very well,” cried the Squire, speaking very 
quick, “the premises being thus settled, I proceed to observe 
that the concatenation of self-existences, proceeding in a 
reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally produce a problematical 
dialogism, which in some measure proves that the essence of 
spirituality may be referred to the second predicable.” — 
“ Hold, hold,” cried the other, “ I deny that. Do you think 
I can thus tamely submit to such heterodox doctrines?” — 
“What!” replied the Squire, as if in a passion, “not sub- 
mit! Answer me one plain question : Do you think Aristotle 1 
right when he says that relatives are related?” — “Undoubt- 
edly,” replied the other. — “If so, then,” cried the Squire, 
“answer me directly to what I propose: Whether do you 
judge the analytical investigation of the first part of my 
enthymem deficient secundum quoad, or quoad minus, and 
give me yonr reasons too; give me }^our reasons, I say, 
directly.” — “I protest,” cried Moses, “I don’t rightly com- 
prehend the force of your reasoning; but if it be reduced to 
one simple proposition, I fancy it may then have an answer.” 
— “ Oh, sir,” cried the Squire, “ I am your most humble ser- 
vant; I find you want me to furnish you with argument and 
intellects both. No, sir, there I protest you are too hard for 
me.” This effectually raised the laugh against poor Moses, 
who sat the only dismal figure in a group of merry faces; nor 
did he offer a single syllable more during the whole enter- 
tainment. 


The works of Aristotle on Dialectic still served as text-hooks of Logic. 


A TOWN WIT DESCRIBED. 


31 


But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a very dif- 
ferent effect upon Olivia, who mistook this humor, which was 
a mere act of the memory, for real wit. She thought him 
therefore a very fine gentleman; and such as consider what 
powerful ingredients a good figure, fine clothes, and fortune 
are in that character will easily forgive her. Mr. Thornhill, 
notwithstanding his real ignorance, talked with ease, and 
could expatiate upon the common topics of conversation with 
fluency. It is not surprising, then, that such talents should 
win the affections of a girl who by education was taught to 
value an appearance in herself, and consequently to set a 
value upon it when found in another. 

Upon his departure we again entered into a debate upon 
the merits of our young landlord. As he directed his looks 
and conversation to Olivia, it was no longer doubted but that 
she was the object that induced him to be our visitor. Nor 
did she seem to be much displeased at the innocent raillery of 
her brother and sister upon this occasion. Even Deborah 
herself seemed to share the glory of the day, and exulted in 
her daughter’s victory as if it were her own.— “ And now, my 
dear,” cried she to me, “I’ll fairly own that it was I that 
instructed my girls to encourage our landlord’s addresses. I 
had always some ambition, and you now see that I was right; 
for who knows how this may end?” — “Ay, who knows that 
indeed! ” answered I, with a groan: “for my part, I don’t 
much like it; and I could have been better pleased with one 
that was poor and honest, than this fine gentleman with his 
fortune and infidelity ; 1 for, depend on’t, if he be what I 
suspect him, no free-thinker shall ever have a child of mine.” 

“Sure, father,” cried Moses, “you are too severe in this: 
for Heaven will never arraign him for what lie thinks, but for 
what he does . 2 Every man has a thousand vicious thoughts, 

1 Squire Thornhill had probably said may be rightly punished for his acts, but 

more in the direction of his remark about not for his opinions. Really, however, 
tithes. everybody thinks that our actions, in the 

2 It is rather a common view that a man long run, depend on our opinions. 


32 


THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 


which arise without his power to suppress. Thinking freely 
of religion may he involuntary with this gentleman; so that, 
allowing his sentiments to be wrong, yet as he is purely pas- 
sive in their reception, he is no more to he blamed for their 
incursions than the governor of a city 1 without walls for the 
shelter he is obliged to afford an invading enemy/’ 

“ True, my son,” cried I, “but if the governor invites the 
enemy, there he is justly culpable. And such is always the 
case with those who embrace error. The vice does not lie in 
assenting to the proofs they see; but in being blind to many 
of the proofs that offer. Like corrupt judges on a bench, 
they determine right on that part of the evidence they hear; 
but they will not hear all the evidence. Thus, my son, 
though our erroneous opinions be involuntary when formed, 
yet as we have been wilfully corrupt, or very negligent in 
forming them, we deserve punishment for our vice, or con- 
tempt for our folly.” 

My wife now kept up the conversation, though not the 
argument: she observed that several very prudent men of 
our acquaintance were free-thinkers, and made very good 
husbands; and she knew some sensible girls that had skill 
enough to make converts of their spouses: “And who knows, 
my dear,” continued she, “what Olivia may be able to do. 
The girl has a great deal to say upon every subject, and to my 
knowledge is very well skilled in controversy .” 2 

“Why, my dear, what controversy can she have read?” 
cried I. “It does not occur to my memory that I ever put 
such books into her hands; you certainly overrate her merit.” 
— “Indeed, papa,” replied Olivia, “she does not; I have 
read a great deal of controversy. I have read the disputes 
between Thwackum and Square ; 3 the controversy between 
Robinson Crusoe and Friday 4 the savage, and I am now em- 

1 Moses, though fond of an argument, 3 absurd disputations in “Tom Jones,” 
was also fond of figurative illustration, as by Fielding, which had come out in 1749. 
on page 27. 4 As soon as Friday could understand 

3 religious controversy. English, Crusoe instructed him in the 


AN AMOUR WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FORTUNE. 33 


ployed in reading the controversy in Religious Courtship.” 1 
— “Very well,” cried I, “that’s a good girl: I find you are 
perfectly qualified for making converts; and so go help your 
mother to make the gooseberry-pie.” 

CHAPTER VIII. 

AN AMOUR WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FORTUNE, YET 
MAY BE PRODUCTIVE OF MUCH. 

The next morning we were again visited by Mr. Burchell, 
though I began, for certain reasons, to be displeased with the 
frequency of his return; but I could not refuse him my com- 
pany and fireside. It is true, his labor more than requited 
his entertainment; for he wrought among us with vigor, and 
either in the meadow or at the hay-rick put himself foremost. 
Besides, he had always something amusing to say that lessened 
our toil, and was at once so out of the way, and yet so sensi- 
ble, that I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dis- 
like arose from an attachment he discovered 2 to my daughter; 
he would, in a jesting manner, call her his little mistress, and 
when he bought each of the girls a set of ribbons, hers was 
the finest. I knew not how, but he every day seemed to 
become more amiable, his wit to improve, and his simplicity 
to assume the superior airs of wisdom. 

Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or rather reclined 
round a temperate 2 repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, 
while Mr. Burchell seemed to give cheerfulness to the feast. 
To heighten our satisfaction, two blackbirds answered each 
other from opposite hedges, the familiar redbreast came and 
pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed 
but the echo of tranquillity.— “ I never sit thus,” says Sophia, 

truths of religion. It was hardly “ con- 1 a novel by De Foe. 

troversy,” although Friday asked some 2 allowed to become evident, 

questions which even Dr. Primrose would 3 refers correctly to eating as well as to 

have found it hard to answer. drinking. 

3 


34 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


“but I think of the two lovers so sweetly described by Mr. 
Gay , 1 who were struck dead in each other’s arms under a bar- 
ley mow. There is something so pathetic in the description 
that I have read it a hundred times with new rapture.” — “ In 
my opinion,” cried my son, “ the finest strokes in that descrip- 
tion are much below those in the Acis and Galatea of Ovid . 2 
The Roman poet understands the use of contrast better; and 
upon that figure, artfully managed, all strength in the pathetic 
depends.” 8 — “It is remarkable,” cried Mr. Burcliell, “that 
both the poets you mention have equally contributed to intro- 
duce a false taste into their respective countries, by loading- 
all their lines with epithet . 4 Men of little genius found them 
most easily imitated in their defects, and English poetry, like 
that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at present but a 
combination of luxuriant images, without plot or connection: 
a string of epithets that improve the sound, without carrying 
on the sense. But perhaps, madam, while I thus reprehend 
others, you’ll think it just that I should give them an oppor- 
tunity to retaliate; and, indeed, I have made this remark only 
to have an opportunity of introducing to the company a bal- 
lad which, whatever be its other defects, is, I think, at least 
free from those I have mentioned^” 5 

A BALLAD. 

“ Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, 

And guide my lonely way, 

To where yon taper cheers the vale 
With hospitable ray. 

« 

1 John Gay (1685-1732) was one of the 8 The following ballad does really have 
lighter poets of the preceding generation. the characteristic alleged by Mr. Burchell : 

2 “Metamorphoses,” xiii. 750-867. the epithets are needful to the sense. It 

3 It need hardly be pointed out that the was written by Goldsmith before he wrote 
“miscellaneous education” which Moses had the “Vicar,” during the revival of interest 
received was, on the whole, scholastic. His in old ballads, with the idea of being very 
references are to the classics, his figures are simple and direct. It was originally called 
of the old rhetoric, his argument is logical. “ Edwin and Angelina,” but is now usually 

4 An adjective imparting quality or known as “ The Hermit.” 
character to person or thing. 


AN AMOUR WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FORTUNE. 35 


11 For here forlorn and lost I.tread, 
With fainting steps and slow ; 

Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
Seem lengthening as I go.” 

“ Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries, 

“ To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 

For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

“ Here to the houseless child of want 
My door is open still ; 

And though my portion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 

“ Then turn to-night, and freely share 
Whate’er my cell bestows ; 

My rushy couch and frugal fare, 

My blessing and repose. 

“ No flocks that range the valley free 
To slaughter I condemn ; 

Taught by that Power that pities me, 

I learn to pity them : 

“ But from the mountain’s grassy side, 
A guiltless feast I bring ; 

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 
And water from the spring. 

“ Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego, 
All earth-born cares are wrong ; 

Man wants but little here below, 

Nor wants that little long.” 

Soft as the dew from Heaven descends, 
His gentle accents fell ; 

The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 


36 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


Far in a wilderness obscure 
The lonely mansion lay, 

A refuge to the neigh b’ring poor 
And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 
Required a master’s care ; 

The wicket, op’ning with a latch, 
Received the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 
To take their ev’ning rest, 

The Hermit trimm’d his little fire, 

And cheer’d his pensive guest : 

And spread his vegetable store, 

And gayly press’d and smil’d ; 

And skill’d in legendary lore, 

The ling’ring hours beguil’d. 

Around, in sympathetic mirth, 

Its tricks the kitten tries, 

The cricket chirrups in the hearth, 

The crackling fagot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 
To sooth the stranger’s woe ; 

For grief was heavy at his heart, 

And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the Hermit spied, 

With answ’ring care oppress’d : 

“ And whence, unhappy youth,” he cried, 
‘ ‘ The sorrows of thy breast ? 

“ From better habitations spurn’d, 
Reluctant dost thou rove ? 

Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d, 

Or unregarded love ? 


AN AMOUR WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FORTUNE. 37 


“ Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 
Are trilling, and decay ; 

And those who prize the paltry things, 

More trifling still than they. 

“ And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep ; 

A shade that follows wealth or fame, 

But leaves the wretch to weep ? 

“ And love is still an emptier sound, 

The modern fair one’s jest ; 

On earth unseen, or only found 
To warm the turtle’s 1 nest. 

“ For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
And spurn the sex,” he said ; 

But while he spoke, a rising blush 
His love-lorn guest betray’d. 

Surpris’d, he sees new beauties rise, 

Swift mantling to the view ; 

Like colors o’er the morning skies, 

As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast, 
Alternate spread alarms : 

The lovely stranger stands confess’d 
A maid in all her charms. 

“ And ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 

A wretch forlorn,” she cried ; 

“ Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude 
Where Heaven and you reside. 

“ But let a maid thy pity share, 

Whom love has taught to stray ; 

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 


1 What sort of turtle ? 


38 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


“ My father liv’d beside the Tyne, 

A wealthy lord was he; 

And all his wealth was mark’d as mine, 
He had but only me. 

To win me from his tender arms, 
Unnumber’d suitors came ; 

Who prais’d me for imputed charms, 
And felt or feign’d a flame. 


“ Each hour a mercenary crowd, 

With richest proffers strove ; 

Among the rest young Edwin bow’d, 
But never talk’d of love. 

“ In humble, simplest habit clad, 

No wealth nor power had he ; 

Wisdom and worth were all he had, 

But these were all to me. 

u And when, beside me in the dale, 

He carol’d lays of love, 

His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 
And music to the grove. 

“ The blossom opening to the day, 

The dews of Heaven refin’d, 

Could naught of purity display 
To emulate his mind. 

“ The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
With charms inconstant shine ; 

Their charms were his, but woe to me, 
Their constancy was mine. 

“ For still I tried each fickle art, 
Importunate and vain; 

And while his passion touch’d my heart, 
I triumph’d in his pain : 


AN AMOUR WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FORTUNE. 39 


“ Till quite dejected with my scorn, 

He left me to my pride ; 

And sought a solitude forlorn, 

In secret, where he died. 

“ But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 

And well my life shall pay ; 

I’ll seek the solitude he sought, 

And stretch me where he lay. 

“ And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 

I’ll lay me down and die ; 

’Twas so for me that Edwin did, 

And so for him will I.” 

“ Forbid it, Heaven! ” the Hermit cried, 

And clasp’d her to his breast : 

The wond’ring fair one turn’d to chide — 

’Twas Edwin’s self that press’d. 

“ Turn, Angelina, ever dear ! 

My charmer, turn to see 

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here 
Restor’d to love and thee. 

“ Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 

And every care resign : 

And shall we never, never part, 

My life — my all that’s mine ? 

“ No, never from this hour to part, 

We’ll live and love so true; 

The sigh that rends thy constant heart, 

Shall break thy Edwin’s too.” 

While this ballad was reading , 1 Sophia seemed to mix an 
air of tenderness with her approbation. Bat our tranquillity 
was soon disturbed by the report of a gun just by us, and 

1 Cf . was preparing , p. 47. 


40 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


immediately after a man was seen bursting through the hedge, 
to take up the game he had killed. This sportsman was the 
Squire’s chaplain, who had shot one of the blackbirds that so 
agreeably entertained us. So loud a report, and so near, 
startled my daughters; and I could perceive that Sophia, in 
the fright, had thrown herself into Mr. Burchell’s arms for 
protection. The gentleman came up and asked pardon for 
having disturbed us, affirming that he was ignorant of our 
being so near. He therefore sat down by my youngest daugh- 
ter, and, sportsman-like, offered her what he had killed that 
morning. She was going to refuse, but a private look from 
her mother soon induced her to correct the mistake, and 
accept his present, though with some reluctance. My wife, 
as usual, discovered her pride in a whisper, observing that 
Sophy had made a conquest of the chaplain, as well as her 
sister had of the Squire. I suspected, however, with more 
probability, that her affections were placed upon a different 
object. The chaplain’s errand was to inform us that Mr. 
Thornhill had provided music and refreshments, and intended 
that night giving the young ladies a ball by moonlight, on the 
grass-plot before our door. — “ Nor can I deny,” continued he, 
“ but I have an interest in being first to deliver this message, 
as I expect for my reward to be honored with Miss Sophy’s 
hand as a partner.” To this my girl replied that she should 
have no objection, if she could do it with honor. — “But 
here,” continued she, “is a gentleman,” looking at Mr. 
Burchell, “who has been my companion in the task for the 
day, and it is fit he should share in its amusements. ” Mr. 
Burchell returned her a compliment for her intentions; but 
resigned her up to the chaplain, adding that he was to go that 
night five miles, being invited to a harvest supper. His 
refusal appeared to me a little extraordinary; nor could I con- 
ceive how so sensible a girl as my youngest could thus prefer 
a middle-aged man of broken fortunes to a sprightly young 
fellow of twenty-two. But as men are most capable of distin- 


TWO LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED. 41 


guishing merit in women, so the ladies often form the truest 
judgments upon us. The two sexes seem placed as spies upon 
each other, and are furnished with different abilities, adapted 
for mutual inspection. 


CHAPTER IX. 

TWO LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED. SUPERIOR 
FINERY EVER SEEMS TO CONFER SUPERIOR BREEDING. 

Mr. Burchell had scarce taken leave, and Sophia con- 
sented to dance with the chaplain, when my little ones came 
running out to tell us that the Squire was come with a crowd 
of company. Upon our return, we found our landlord, with 
a couple of under gentlemen 1 and two young ladies richly 
dressed, whom he introduced as women of very great distinc- 
tion and fashion from town. We happened not to have chairs 
enough for the whole company; but Mr. Thornhill immedi- 
ately proposed that every gentleman should sit in a lady’s 
lap. This I positively objected to, notwithstanding a look of 
disapprobation from my wife. Moses was therefore despatched 
to borrow a couple of chairs; and as we were in want of ladies 
also to make up a set at country dances, the two gentlemen 
went with him in quest of a couple of partners. Chairs and 
partners were soon provided. The gentlemen returned with 
my neighbor Flamborough’s rosy daughters, flaunting with 
red topknots. But there was an unlucky circumstance which 
was not adverted to; though the Miss Flamboroughs were 
reckoned the very best dancers in the parish, and understood 
the jig and the roundabout to perfection, yet they were totally 
unacquainted with country dances . 2 This at first discomposed 

1 friends of inferior position. dancers have to take part. The most com- 

2 In the jig and roundabout the dancer is mon country dance at present is the Virginia 
more or less independent, but the country Reel, which is our counterpart of the Eng- 
dance has a figure in which a number of lish Sir Roger de Coverley. 


42 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


us; however, after a little shoving and dragging, they began 
to go merrily on. Our music consisted of two fiddles, with 
a pipe and tabor. The moon shone bright. Mr. Thornhill 
and my eldest daughter led up 1 the ball, to the great delight 
of the spectators; for the neighbors, hearing what was going 
forward, came flocking about us. My girl moved with so 
much grace and vivacity that my wife could not avoid dis- 
covering the pride of her heart by assuring me that, though 
the little chit did it so cleverly, all the steps were stolen from 
herself. The ladies of the town strove hard to be equally 
easy; but without success. They swam, sprawled, languished, 
and frisked; but all would not do: the gazers indeed owned 
that it was fine; but neighbor Flamborough observed that 
Miss Livy’s feet seemed as pat to the music as its echo. After 
the dance had continued about an hour, the two ladies, who 
were apprehensive of catching cold, moved to break up the 
ball. One of them, I thought, expressed her sentiments upon 
this occasion in a very coarse manner, when she observed that 
by the living jingo she was all of a much of sweat. Upon our 
return to the house, we found a very elegant cold supper, 
which Mr. Thornhill had ordered to be brought with him. 
The conversation at this time was more reserved than before. 
The two ladies threw my girls quite into the shade; for they 
would talk of nothing but high life and high-lived company; 
with other fashionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shake- 
speare, and the musical glasses . 2 'Tis true they once or twice 
mortified us. sensibly by slipping out an oath; but that ap- 
peared to me as the surest symptom of their distinction 
(though I am since informed swearing is now perfectly un- 
fashionable ). 3 Their finery, however, threw a veil over any 
grossness in their conversation. My daughters seemed to 
regard their superior accomplishments with envy; and what 

1 opened : cf. “ Led Tip their sports be- various names, in which pieces of glass are 
neath the spreading tree"— -Deserted Vil- struck with a plectrum. 

laye< 1. 18. s Swearing was far more common in the 

2 an instrument, common to-day under eighteenth century than it is to-day. 


TWO LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED. 43 


appeared amiss was ascribed to tip-top quality breeding . 1 But 
the condescension of the ladies was still superior to their other 
accomplishments. One of them observed that had Miss Olivia 
seen a little more of the world, it would greatly improve her. 
To which the other added, that a single winter in town would 
make her little Sophia quite another thing. My wife warmly 
assented to both; adding, that there was nothing she more 
ardently wished than to give her girls a single winter’s polish- 
ing. To this I could not help replying, that their breeding 
was already superior to their fortune; and that greater refine- 
ment would only serve to make their poverty ridiculous, and 
give them a taste for pleasures they had no right to possess. — 
“And what pleasures,” cried Mr. Thornhill, “do they not 
deserve, who have so much in their power to bestow? As for 
my part,” continued he, “my fortune is pretty large; love, 
liberty, and pleasure are my maxims; but curse me, if a settle- 
ment of half my estate could give my charming Olivia plea- 
sure, it should be hers; and the only favor I would ask in 
return would be to add myself to the benefit.” I was not 
such a stranger to the world as to be ignorant that this was 
fashionable cant; but I made an effort to suppress my resent- 
ment. — “Sir,” cried I, “the family which you now con- 
descend to favor with your company 2 has been bred with as 
nice 3 a sense of honor as you. Any attempts to injure that 
may be attended with very dangerous consequences. Honor, 
sir, is our only possession at present, and of that last treasure 
we must be particularly careful.” I was soon sorry for the 
warmth with which I had spoken this, when the young gentle- 
man, grasping my hand, swore he commended my spirit, 
though he disapproved my suspicions. — “ As to your present 
hint,” continued he, “I protest nothing was farther from 
my heart than such a thought.” 


1 The expression is of course sarcastic on guage from a clergyman to a wealthy 

the part of the Vicar. neighbor, even his landlord. 

2 This seems to us to-day curious lan- 3 delicate. 


44 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


The two ladies then began a very discreet and serious dia- 
logue upon virtue; in this my wife, the chaplain, and I soon 
joined; and the Squire himself was at last brought to confess 
a sense of sorrow for his former excesses. We talked of the 
pleasures of temperance, and the sunshine in the mind unpol- 
luted witli guilt. I was so well pleased that my little ones 
were kept up beyond the usual time, to be edified by such 
good conversation. Mr. Thornhill even went beyond me, 
and demanded if I had any objection to giving prayers. I 
joyfully embraced the proposal; and in this manner the night 
was passed in a most comfortable way, till at last the com- 
pany began to think of returning. The ladies seemed very 
unwilling to part from my daughters, for whom they had 
conceived a particular affection, and joined in a request to 
have the pleasure of tlieir company home. The Squire sec- 
onded the proposal, and my wife added her entreaties; the 
girls, too, looked upon me as if they wished to go. In this 
perplexity I made two or three excuses, which my daughters 
as readily removed ; so that at last I was obliged to give a per- 
emptory refusal; for which we had nothing but sullen looks 
and short answers the whole day ensuing. 

CHAPTEE X. 

THE FAMILY ENDEAVOR TO COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS. THE 
MISERIES OF THE POOR WHEN THEY ATTEMPT TO APPEAR 
ABOVE THEIR CIRCUMSTANCES. 

I now began, to find that all my long and painful lectures 
upon temperance, simplicity, and contentment were entirely 
disregarded. The distinctions lately paid us by our betters 
awaked that pride which I had laid asleep, but not removed. 
Our windows now again, as formerly, were filled with washes 
for the neck and face. The sun was dreaded as an enemy to 
the skin without doors, and the fire as a spoiler of the com- 


FAMILY ENDEAVOR TO COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS. 45 


plexion within. My wife observed that rising too early would 
hurt her daughters’ eyes, that working after dinner would 
redden their noses, and convinced me that the hands never 
looked so white as when they did nothing. Instead therefore 
of finishing George’s shirts, we now had them new-modelling 
their old gauzes, or flourishing upon catgut. The poor Miss 
Flamboroughs, their former gay companions, were cast off as 
mean acquaintance, and the whole conversation ran upon 
high life and high-lived company, with pictures, taste, Shake- 
speare, and the musical glasses. 

But we could have borne all this, had not a fortune-telling 
gypsy 1 come to raise us into perfect sublimity. The tawny 
sibyl no sooner appeared than my girls came running to me 
for a shilling apiece to cross her hand with silver. To say 
the truth, I was tired of being always wise, and could not 
help gratifying their request, because I loved to see them 
happy. I gave each of them a shilling; though, for the 
honor of the family, it must be observed that they never went 
without money themselves, as my wife always generously let 
them have a guinea each, to keep in their pockets, but with 
strict injunctions never to change it. After they had been 
closeted up with the fortune-teller for some time, I knew by 
their looks, upon their returning, that they had been prom- 
ised something great.—' “ Well, my girls, how have you sped? 
Tell me, Livy, has the fortune-teller given thee a penny- 
worth?” — “I protest, papa,” says the girl with a serious 
face. “I believe she deals with somebody that’s not right; 
for she positively declared that I am to be married to a great 
Squire in less than a twelvemonth! “ Well, now, Sophy, 
my child,” said I, “and what sort of a husband are you to 
have ? ” — Sir,” replied she, “I am to have a Lord soon 
after my sister has been married to the Squire.”— “ How,” 
cried I, “is that all you are to have for your two shillings ? 

1 Gypsies were formerly much more common than at present. But even at the present 
day, and in America, one sometimes meets them on the road. 


46 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


Only a Lord and a Squire for two shillings! You fools, I 
could have promised you a Prince and a Nabob 1 for half the 
money.” 

This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with very 
serious effects: we now began to think ourselves designed by 
the stars 2 for something exalted, and already anticipated our 
future grandeur. 

It has been a thousand times observed, and I must observe 
it once more, that the hours we pass with happy prospects in 
view are more pleasing than those crowned with fruition. In 
the first case we cook the dish to our own appetite! in the 
latter, nature cooks it for us. It is impossible to repeat the 
train of agreeable reveries we called up for our entertainment. 
We looked upon our fortunes as once more rising; and as the 
whole parish asserted that the Squire was in love with my 
daughter, she was actually so with him; for they persuaded 
her into passion. In this agreeable interval my wife had the 
most lucky dreams 3 in the world, which she took care to tell 
us every morning with great solemnity and exactness. It was 
one night a coffin and crossbones, the sign of an approaching 
wedding; at another time she imagined her daughter’s pockets 
filled with farthings, a certain sign of their being one day 
stuffed with gold. The girls had their omens, too. They 
felt strange kisses on their lips; they saw rings in the candle; 
purses bounced from the fire, and true-love knots lurked at 
the bottom of every tea-cup. 

Towards the end of the week we received a card from the 
town ladies, in which, with their compliments, they hoped to 
see all our family at church the Sunday following. All Sat- 
urday morning I could perceive, in consequence of this, my 
wife and daughters in close conference together, and now and 
then glancing at me with looks that betrayed a latent plot. 

1 the title of an Indian prince, a name tiny, as is evidenced by a number of collo- 
given to those Englishmen who returned quial expressions. 

from India with great wealth. 8 Dreams are still valued by the unedu- 

2 The stars were formerly arbiters of des- cated for their predictions. 


FAMILY ENDEAVOR TO COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS. 47 

To be sincere, I bad strong suspicions that some absurd pro- 
posal was preparing for appearing with splendor the next day. 
In the evening they began their operations in a very regular 
manner, and my wife undertook to conduct the siege. After 
tea, when I seemed in spirits, she began thus: — “I fan'cy, 
Charles, my dear, we shall have a great deal of good company 
at our church to-morrow.” — “Perhaps we may, my dear,” 
returned I, 44 though you need be under no uneasiness about 
that; you shall have a sermon whether there be or not.” — 
“That is what I expect,” returned she; “but I think, my 
dear, we ought to appear there as decently as possible, for 
who knows what may happen?” — “Your precautions,” re- 
plied I, “ are highly commendable. A decent behavior and 
appearance in church is what charms me. We should be 
devout and humble, cheerful and serene.” — “Yes,” cried 
she, 4 £ I know that ; but I mean we should go there in as 
proper a manner as possible; not altogether like the scrubs 
about us .” — 44 You are quite right, my dear,” returned I, 
44 and I was going to make the very same proposal. The 
proper manner of going is, to go there as early as possible, to 
have time for meditation before the service begins .” — 44 Phoo, 
Charles,” interrupted she, 44 all that is very true; hut not 
what I would be at. I mean, we should go there genteelly. 
You know the church is two miles off, and I protest I don’t 
like to see my daughters trudging up to their pew all blowzed 
and red with walking, and looking for all the world as if they 
had been winners at a smock race. Now, my dear, my pro- 
posal is this: there are our two plough horses, the Colt that 
has been in our family these nine years, and his companion 
Blackberry, that have scarce done an earthly thing for this 
month past, and are both grown fat and lazy. Why should 
they not do something as well as we? And let me tell you, 
when Moses has trimmed them a little* they will not be so 
contemptible.” 

To this proposal I objected that walking would be twenty 


48 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


times more genteel than such a paltry conveyance, as Black- 
berry was wall-eyed, and the Colt wanted a tail: that they 
had never been broke to the rein, but had a hundred vicious 
tricks: and that we had but one saddle and pillion 1 in the 
whole house. All these objections, however, were overruled; 
so that I was obliged to comply. The next morning I perceived 
them not a little busy in collecting such materials as might be 
necessary for the expedition; but, as I found it would be a 
business of much time, I walked on to the church before, and 
they promised speedily to follow. I waited near an hour in 
the reading desk for their arrival; but not finding them come 
as expected, I was obliged to begin, and went through the 
service, not without some uneasiness at finding them absent. 
This was increased when all was finished, and no appearance 
of the family. I therefore walked back by the horse-way , 2 
which was five miles round, though the foot- way 3 was but 
two, and when got about half-way home, perceived the pro- 
cession marching slowly forward towards the church : my son, 
my wife, and the two little ones, exalted upon one horse, and 
my two daughters upon the other. I demanded the cause of 
their delay; but I soon found by their looks they had met 
with a thousand misfortunes on the road. The horses had at 
first refused to move from the door, till Mr. Burchell was 
kind enough to beat them forward for about two hundred 
yards with his cudgel. Next, the straps of my wife’s pillion 
broke down, and they were obliged to stop to repair them 
before they could proceed. After that, one of the horses took 
it into his head to stand still, and neither blows nor entreaties 
could prevail with him to proceed. It was just recovering 
from this dismal situation that I found them; but perceiving 
everything safe, I own their present mortification did not 
much displease me, as it might give me many opportunities of 
future triumph, and teach my daughters more humility. 

1 a seat behind the saddle for a lady. whereon one may walk almost anywhere 

2 highroad. without setting foot on the highroad except 

3 England is covered with footpaths, to cross it. 


FAMILY STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR HEADS. 49 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE FAMILY STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR HEADS. 

Michaelmas Eve 1 happening on the next day, we were 
invited to burn nuts and play tricks at neighbor Flambor- 
ough’s. Our late mortifications had humbled us a little, or it 
is probable we might have rejected such an invitation with 
contempt: however, we suffered ourselves to be happy. Our 
honest neighbor’s goose and dumplings were fine, and the 
lamb’s wool , 2 even in the opinion of my wife, who was a con- 
noisseur, was thought excellent. It is true, his manner of 
telling stories was not quite so well. They were very long, 
and very dull, and all about himself, and we had laughed at 
them ten times before; however, we were kind enough to 
laugh at them once more. 

Mr. Burchell, who was of the party, was always fond of 
seeing some innocent amusement going forward, and set the 
boys and girls to blindman’s buff. My wife, too, was per- 
suaded to join in the diversion, and it gave me pleasure to 
think she was not yet too old. In the mean time, my neigh- 
bor and I looked on, laughed at every feat, and praised our 
own dexterity when we were young. Hot cockles 3 succeeded 
next, questions and commands followed that, and last of all, 
they sat down to hunt the slipper. As every person may not 
be acquainted with this primeval pastime, it may be necessary 
to observe that the company at this play plant themselves in 
a ring upon the ground, all except one, who stands in the 
middle, whose business it is to catch a shoe, which the com- 
pany shove about under their hams from one to another, 
something like a weaver’s shuttle. As it is impossible, in this 

1 The feast of the Archangel Michael is 3 a game still played under this and other 
celebrated on the 29th of September. names, in which a blindfolded person is 

a a favorite drink in old-time England, struck by the other players : if he can 
made of ale mixed with sugar, nutmeg, and guess who strikes him, he changes places 
the pulp of roasted apples. with him. 

4 


50 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


case, for the lady who is up to face all the company at once, 
the great beauty of the play lies in hitting her a thump with 
the heel of the shoe on that side least capable of making a 
defence. It was in this manner that my eldest daughter was 
hemmed in, and thumped about, all blowzed, in spirits, and 
bawling for fair play, fair play, with a voice that might deafen 
a ballad-singer, when, confusion on confusion! who should 
enter the room but our two great acquaintances from town. 
Lady Blarney and Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs! 
Description would but beggar, therefore it is unnecessary to 
describe this new mortification. Death! To be seen by ladies 
of such high breeding in such vulgar attitudes! Nothing 
better could ensue from such a vulgar play of Mr. Flam bor- 
ough’s proposing. We seemed struck to the ground for some 
time, as if actually petrified with amazement. 

The two ladies had been at our house to see us, and finding 
us from home, came after us hither, as they were uneasy to 
know what accident could have kept us from church the day 
before. Olivia undertook to be our prolocutor , 1 and delivered 
the whole in a summary way, only saying, “ We were thrown 
from our horses.” At which account the ladies were greatly 
concerned ; 2 but being told the family received no hurt, they 
were extremely glad: but being informed that we were almost 
killed by the fright, they were vastly sorry: but hearing that 
we had a very good night, they were extremely glad again. 
Nothing could exceed their complaisance to my daughters; 
their professions the last evening were warm, but now they 
were ardent. They protested a desire of having a more last- 
ing acquaintance. Lady Blarney was particularly attached to 
Olivia; Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs (I love to 
give the whole name) took a greater fancy to her sister. They 
supported the conversation between themselves, while my 
daughters sat silent, admiring their exalted breeding. But as 

1 spokesman. ironically quotes the ladies’ own cxpres- 

2 Here, and in the following, the Vicar sions. 


FAMILY STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR HEADS. 51 


every reader, however beggarly himself, is fond of high-lived 
dialogues, with anecdotes of Lords, Ladies, and Knights of 
the Garter , 1 I must beg leave to give him the concluding part 
of the present conversation. 

“All that I know of the matter,” cried Miss Skeggs, “is 
this, that it may be true or it may not be true: but this I can 
assure your Ladyship, that the whole rout was in amaze; his 
Lordship turned all manner of colors, my Lady fell into a 
swoon, but Sir Tomkyn, drawing his sword, swore he was hers 
to the last drop of his blood.” 

“ Well,” replied our Peeress, “ this I can say, that the 
Duchess never told me a syllable of the matter, and I believe 
her Grace would keep nothing a secret from me. But this 
you may depend upon as fact, that the next morning my Lord 
Duke cried out three times to his valet-de-chambre, Jernigan, 
Jernigan, Jernigan, bring me my garters.” 

But previously I should have mentioned the very impolite 
behavior of Mr. Burchell, who, during this discourse, sat with 
his face turned to the fire, and at the conclusion of every sen- 
tence would cry out fudge ; an expression which displeased 
us all, and in some measure damped the rising spirit of the 
conversation. 

“Besides, my dear Skeggs,” continued our Peeress, “there 
is nothing of this in the copy of verses that Dr. Burdock 
made upon the occasion .” — Fudge ! 

“I am surprised at that,” cried Miss Skeggs; “for he sel- 
dom leaves anything out, as he writes only for his own amuse- 
ment. But can your Ladyship favor me with a sight of 
them ? ” — Fudge ! 

“My dear creature,” replied our Peeress, “do you think 
I carry such things about me ? Though they are very fine, to 
be sure, and I think myself something of a judge; at least 
I know what pleases myself. Indeed, I was ever an admirer 
of all Dr. Burdock's little pieces; for, except what he does, 

1 the chief order of Knighthood in England. 


52 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


and our dear Countess at Hanover-square, there’s nothing 
comes out 1 but the most lowest stuff in nature; not a bit of 
high life among them .” — Fudge ! 

“ Your Ladyship should except,” says t’other, “your own 
things in the Lady’s Magazine . 2 I hope you’ll say there’s 
nothing low-lived there ? But I suppose we are to have no 
more from that quarter? ” — Fudge! 

“Why, my dear,” says the Lady, “you know my reader 
and companion has left me, to be married to Captain Roach, 
and as my poor eyes won’t suffer me to write myself, I have 
been for some time looking out for another. A proper person 
is no easy matter to find, and, to be sure, thirty pounds a year 
is a small stipend for a well-bred girl of character, that can 
read, write, and behave in company: as for the chits about 
town, there is no bearing them about one.” — Fudge! 

“That I know,” cried Miss Skeggs, “by experience. For 
of the three companions I had this last half-year one of them 
refused to do plain work an hour in the day; another thought 
twenty-five guineas 3 a year too small a salary, 'and I was obliged 
to send away the third, because I suspected a love-affair with 
the chaplain. Virtue, my dear Lady Blarney, virtue is worth 
any price; but where is that to be found ? ” — Fudge! 

My wife had been for a long time all attention to this dis- 
course; but was particularly struck with the latter part of it. 
Thirty pounds and twenty-five guineas a year made fifty-six 
pounds five shillings English money, all which was in a man- 
ner going a-begging , 4 and might easily be secured in the fam- 
ily. She for a moment studied my looks for approbation; 
and, to own a truth, I w T as of opinion that two such places 
would fit our two daughters exactly. Besides, if the Squire 
had any real affection for my eldest daughter, this would be 
the way to make her every way qualified for her fortune. My 

1 No poetry is published. 3 The guinea, of twenty-one shillings, was 

2 Goldsmith had himself conducted a still coined at this period. 

Lady's Magazine during his early years in 4 The ladies could not find suitable per- 
London. sons for those salaries. 


FAMILY STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR HEADS. 53 


wife, therefore, was resolved that we should not be deprived 
of such advantages for want of assurance, and undertook to 
harangue for the family. — “I hope/’ cried she, “your Lady- 
ships will pardon my present presumption. It is true, we 
have no right to pretend to such favors; but yet it is natural 
for me to wish putting my children forward in the world. 
And I will be bold to say my two girls have had a pretty good 
education and capacity, at least the country can’t show better. 
They can ’read, write, and cast accounts; they understand 
their needle, broad stitch, cross and change, and all manner of 
plain work; they can pink, point, and frill, and know some- 
thing of music; they can do up small clothes; work upon cat- 
gut; my eldest can cut paper, and my youngest has a very 
pretty manner of telling fortunes upon the cards .” — Fudge l 

When she had delivered this pretty piece of eloquence, the 
two ladies looked at each other a few minutes in silence with 
an air of doubt and importance. At last Miss Carolina Wil- 
helmina Amelia Skeggs condescended to observe that the 
young ladies, from the opinion she could form of them from 
so slight an acquaintance, seemed very fit for such employ- 
ments. — “But a thing of this kind, madam,” cried she, 
addressing my spouse, “ requires a thorough examination into 
characters, and a more perfect knowledge of each other. Not, 
madam,” continued she, “that I in the least suspect the 
young ladies’ virtue, prudence, and discretion; but there is a 
form in these things, madam, there is a form.” 

My wife approved her suspicions very much, observing that 
she was very apt to be suspicious herself ; 1 but referred her 
to all the neighbors for a character: but this our Peeress 
declined as unnecessary, alleging that her cousin Thornhill’s 
recommendation would be sufficient, and upon this we rested 
our petition. 

1 She was of course in this particular case very unsuspicious. 


54 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER XII. 

FORTUNE SEEMS RESOLVED TO HUMBLE THE FAMILY OF WAKE- 
FIELD. MORTIFICATIONS ARE OFTEN MORE PAINFUL THAN 

REAL CALAMITIES. 

When we were returned home, the night was dedicated to 
schemes of future conquest. Deborah exerted much sagacity 
in conjecturing which of the two girls was likely to have the 
best place, and most opportunities of seeing good company. 
The only obstacle to our preferment was in obtaining the 
Squire’s recommendation, but he had already shown us too 
many instances of his friendship to doubt of it now. Even 
in bed my wife kept up the usual theme: “Well, faith, my 
dear Charles, between ourselves, I think we have made an 
excellent day’s work of it.” — “Pretty well,” cried I, not 
knowing what to say. — “What! only pretty well!” returned 
she. “ I think it is very well. Suppose the girls should 
come to make acquaintances of taste 1 in town! And this I 
am assured of, that London is the only place in the world for 
all manner of husbands. Besides, my dear, stranger things 
happen every day; and as ladies of quality are so taken with 
my daughters, what will not men of quality be ? Entre nous , 
I protest I like my Lady Blarney vastly, so very obliging. 
However, Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs has my 
warm heart. But yet, when they came to talk of places in 
town, you saw at once how I nailed them. Tell me, my dear, 
don’t you think I did for my children there?” — “Ay,” 
returned I, not knowing well what to think of the matter. 
“ Heaven grant they may be both the better for it this day 
three months! ” This was one of those observations I usually 
made to impress my wife with an opinion of my sagacity; for 
if the girls succeeded, then it was a pious wish fulfilled; but 
if anything unfortunate ensued, then it might be looked upon 

1 persons in good society. 


FORTUNE SEEMS RESOLVED TO HUMBLE THE FAMILY. 55 


as a prophecy. All this conversation, however, was only pre- 
paratory to another scheme, and indeed I dreaded as much. 
This was nothing less than that, as we were now to hold our 
heads a little higher in the world, it would be proper to sell 
the Colt, which was grown old, at a neighboring fair, and buy 
us a horse that would carry single or double upon an occasion, 
and make a pretty appearance at church, or upon a visit. 
This at first I opposed stoutly; but it was as stoutly defended. 
However, as I weakened, my antagonists gained strength, till 
at last it was resolved to part with him. 

As the fair 1 happened on the following day, I had inten- 
tions of going myself; but my wife persuaded me that I had 
got a cold, and nothing could prevail upon her to permit me 
from home. “Ho, my dear/’ said she, “our son Moses is 
a discreet boy, and can buy and sell to very good advantage; 
you know all our great bargains are of his purchasing. He 
always stands out and higgles, and actually tires them till he 
gets a bargain.” 

As I had some opinion of my son’s prudence, I was willing 
enough to intrust him with this commission; and the next 
morning I perceived his sisters mighty busy in fitting out 
Moses for the fair: trimming his hair, brushing his buckles, 
and cocking his hat with pins. The business of the toilet 
being over, we had at last the satisfaction of seeing him 
mounted upon the Colt, with a deal box before him to bring 
home groceries in. He had on a coat made of that cloth they 
called thunder and lightning, which, though grown too short, 
was much too good to be thrown away. His waistcoat was of 
gosling 2 green, and his sisters had tied his hair with a broad 
black riband. We all followed him several paces from the 
door, bawling after him “ Good luck, Good luck,” till we 
could see him no longer. 

He was scarcely gone, when Mr. Thornhill’s butler came to 

1 Fairs were regularly held in all the 2 A gosling is a sort of catkin which grows 

country districts of England. on nut-trees. 


56 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


congratulate us upon our good fortune, saying that lie over- 
heard his young master mention our names with great com- 
mendation. 

% 

Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. Another 
footman from the same family followed, with a card for my 
daughters, importing that the two ladies had received such 
pleasing accounts from Mr. Thornhill of us all, that, after 
a few previous inquiries, they hoped to be perfectly satis- 
fied. — “Ay,” cried my wife, “ I now see it is no easy matter 
to get into the families of the great; but when one once gets 
in, then, as Moses says, they may go sleep.” To this piece 
of humor, for she intended it for wit, my daughters assented 
with a loud laugh of pleasure. In short, such was her satis- 
faction at this message, that she actually put her hand to her 
pocket, and gave the messenger sevenpence halfpenny. 

This was to be our visiting day. The next that came was 
Mr. Burchell, who had been at the fair. He brought my 
little ones a pennyworth of gingerbread each, which my wife 
undertook to keep for them, and give them by letters at a 
time. He brought my daughters also a couple of boxes, in 
which they might keep wafers, snuff, patches, or even money, 
when they got it. My wife was usually fond of a weasel-skin 
purse, as being the most lucky; but this by the by. We had 
still a regard for Mr. Burchell, though his late rude behavior 
was in some measure displeasing; nor could we now avoid 
communicating our happiness to him, and asking his advice; 
although we seldom followed advice, we were all ready enough 
to ask it. When he read the note from the two ladies, he 
shook his head, and observed that an affair of this sort 
demanded the utmost circumspection. This air of diffidence 
highly displeased my wife. — “I never doubted, sir,” cried 
she, “your readiness to be against my daughters and me. 
You have more circumspection than is wanted. However, 
I fancy when we come to ask advice, we will apply to persons 
who seem to have made use of it themselves.” — “Whatever 


FORTUNE SEEMS RESOLVED TO HUMBLE THE FAMILY. 57 


my own conduct may have been, madam,” replied he, “is 
not the present question; though as I have made no use of 
advice myself, I should in conscience give it to those that 
will.” — As I was apprehensive this answer might draw on a 
repartee, making up by abuse what it wanted in wit, I changed 
the subject, by seeming to wonder what could keep our son so 
long at the fair, as it was now almost nightfall. — “Never 
mind our son,” cried my wife; “depend upon it he knows 
what he is about. I’ll warrant we’ll never see him sell his 
hen of a rainy day. I have seen him buy such bargains as 
would amaze one. I’ll tell you a good story about that, that 
will make you split your sides with laughing. But as I live, 
yonder comes Moses, without a horse, and the box at his 
back.” 

As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating under 
the deal box, which he had strapped round his shoulders. — 
“Welcome, welcome, Moses; well, my boy, what have you 
brought us from the fair? ” — “ I have brought you myself,” 
cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting the box on the 
dresser. — “Ay, Moses,” cried my wife, “that we know; but 
where is the horse ? ” — “ I have sold him,” cried Moses, “ for 
three pounds five shillings and twopence.” — “ Well done, my 
good boy,” returned she; “I knew you would touch them 
off. Between ourselves, three pounds five shillings and two- 
pence is no bad day’s work. Come, let us have it then.” — 
“ I have brought back no money,” cried Moses again. “ I 
have laid it all out on a bargain, and here it is,” pulling out 
a bundle from his breast: “here they are; a gross of green 
spectacles, with silver rims and shagreen cases.” — “ A gross 
of green spectacles!” repeated my wife in a faint voice. 
“ And you have parted with the Colt, and brought us back 
nothing but a gross of green paltry spectacles! Dear 
mother,” cried the boy, “ why won’t you listen to reason ? I 
had them a dead bargain, or I should not have bought them. 
The silver rims alone will sell for double the money.” — “A 


58 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


fig for the silver rims/’ cried my wife in a passion: “I dare 
swear they won’t sell for above half the money at the rate of 
broken silver, five shillings an ounce.” — “ You need be under 
no uneasiness,” cried I, “about selling the rims, for they are 
not worth sixpence; for I perceive they are only copper var- 
nished over.” — “What,” cried my wife, “not silver! the 
rims not silver! ” — “ No,” cried I, “no more silver than your 
saucepan.” — “And so,” returned she, “we have parted with 
the Colt, and have only got a gross of green spectacles, with 
copper rims and shagreen cases! A murrain take such trum- 
pery. The blockhead has been imposed upon, and should 
have known his company better.” — “ There, my dear,” cried 
I, “you are wrong, he should not have known them at all.” 
— “Marry, hang the idiot,” returned she again, “to bring 
me such stuff; if I had them, I would throw them in the 
fire.” — “There again you are wrong, my dear,” cried I; 
“for though they be copper, we will keep them by us, as 
copper spectacles, you know, are better than nothing.” 

By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He 
now saw that he had indeed been imposed upon by a prowling 
sharper, who, observing his figure, had marked him for an 
easy prey. I therefore asked the circumstances of his decep- 
tion. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked the fair in 
search of another. A reverend-looking man brought him to 
a tent, under a pretence of having one to sell. “ Here,” con- 
tinued Moses, “we met another man, very well dressed, who 
desired to borrow twenty pounds upon these, saying that he 
wanted money, and would dispose of them for a third of the 
value. The first gentleman, who pretended to be my friend, 
whispered me to buy them, and cautioned me not to let so 
good an offer pass. I sent for Mr. Flamborough, and they 
talked him up as finely as they did me, and so at last we were 
persuaded to buy the two gross between us.” 


MR. BURCHELL IS FOUND TO BE AN ENEMY. 


59 


CHAPTER XIII. 

MR. BURCHELL IS FOUND TO BE AN ENEMY ; FOR HE HAS THE 
CONFIDENCE TO GIVE DISAGREEABLE ADVICE. 

Our family had now made several attempts to be fine; but 
some unforeseen disaster demolished each as soon as projected. 
I endeavored to take the advantage of every disappointment, 
to improve their good sense in proportion as they were frus- 
trated in ambition. — “ You see, my children,” cried I, “ how 
little is to be got by attempts to impose upon the world, in 
coping with our betters. Such as are poor, and will associate 
with none but the rich, are hated by those they avoid, and 
despised by those they follow. Unequal combinations are 
always disadvantageous to the weaker side: the rich having 
the pleasure, and the poor the inconveniences that result from 
them. But come, Dick, my boy, and repeat the fable that 
you were reading to-day, for the good of the company.” 

“Once upon a time,” cried the child, “a Giant and a 
Dwarf were friends and kept together. They made a bargain 
that they would never forsake each other, but go seek adven- 
tures. The first battle they fought was with two Saracens , 1 
and the Dwarf, who was very courageous, dealt one of the 
champions a most angry blow. It did the Saracen but very 
.little injury, who, lifting up his sword, fairly struck off the 
poor Dwarf’s arm. He was now in a woeful plight; but the 
Giant, coming to his assistance, in a short time left the two 
Saracens dead on the plain, and the Dwarf cut off the dead 
man’s head out of spite. They then travelled on to another 
adventure. This was against three bloody-minded Satyrs, 
who were carrying away a damsel in distress. The Dwarf 
was not quite so fierce now as before; but for all that struck 
the first blow, which was returned by another, that knocked 


i The Saracens, who were actually the enemies of Christendom during the crusades, 
long held the same position in popular fable. 


60 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


out liis eye; but the Giant was soon up with them, and had 
they not fled, would certainly have killed them every one. 
They were all very joyful for this victory, and the damsel who 
was relieved fell in love with the Giant, and married him. 
They now travelled far, and farther than I can tell, till they 
met with a company of robbers. The Giant, for the first 
time, was foremost now; but the Dwarf was not far behind. 
The battle was stout and long. Wherever the Giant came, all 
fell before him; but the Dwarf had like to have been killed 
more than once. At last the victory declared for the two 
adventurers; but the Dwarf lost his leg. The Dwarf was 
now without an arm, a leg, and an eye, while the Giant, who 
was without a single wound, cried out to him, ‘ Come on, my 
little hero; this is glorious sport! let us get one victory more, 
and then we shall have honor forever.’ ‘No,’ cries the 
Dwarf, who was by this time grown wiser, ‘ no, I declare off; 
I’ll fight no more: for I find in every battle that you get all 
the honor and rewards, but all the blows fall upon me.’ ” 

I was going to moralize this fable, when our attention was 
called off to a warm dispute between my wife and Mr. Bur- 
chell, upon my daughters’ intended expedition to town. My 
wife very strenuously insisted upon the advantages that would 
result from it; Mr. Burch ell, on the contraiy, dissuaded her 
with great ardor, and I stood neuter. His present dissuasions 
seemed but the second part of those which were received with 
so ill a grace in the morning. The dispute grew high, while 
poor Deborah, instead of reasoning stronger, talked louder, 
and at last was obliged to take shelter from a defeat in clamor. 
The conclusion of her harangue, however, was highly displeas- 
ing to us all: she knew, she said, of some who had their own 
secret reasons for what they advised; but, for her part, she 
wished such to stay away from her house for the future. — 
“Madam,” cried Burcliell, with looks of great composure, 
which tended to inflame her the more, “as for secret reasons, 
you are right; I have secret reasons, which I forbear to men- 


MR. BURCHELL IS FOUND TO BE AN ENEMY. 61 

tion, because you are not able to answer those of which I make 
no secret: but I find my visits here are become troublesome; 
•I’ll take my leave therefore now, and perhaps come once more 
to take a final farewell, when I am quitting the country.” 
Thus saying, he took up his hat, nor could the attempts of 
Sophia, whose looks seemed to upbraid his precipitancy, pre- 
vent his going. 

When gone, we all regarded each other for some minutes 
with confusion. My wife, who knew herself to be the cause, 
strove to hide her concern with a forced smile, and an air of 
assurance, which I was willing to reprove. “ How, woman,” 
cried I to her, “ is it thus we treat strangers? Is it thus we 
return their kindness ? Be assured, my dear, that these were 
the harshest words, and to me the most unpleasing that ever 
escaped your lips!” — “ Why would he provoke me, then?” 
replied she; “but I know the motives of his advice perfectly 
well. He would prevent my girls from going to town, that 
he may have the pleasure of my youngest daughter’s company 
here at home. But whatever happens, she shall choose better 
company than such low-lived fellows as he.” — “Low-lived, 
my dear, do you call him ? ” cried I; “it is very possible we 
may mistake this man’s character, for he seems upon some 
occasions the most finished gentleman I ever knew. Tell me, 
Sophia, my girl, has he ever given you any secret instances of 
his attachment?” — “His conversation with me, sir,” replied 
my daughter, “has ever been sensible, modest, and pleasing. 
As to aught else, no, never. Once, indeed, I remember to 
have heard him say he never knew a woman who- could find 
merit in a man that seemed poor.” — “ Such, my dear,” cried 
I, “is the common cant of all the unfortunate or idle. But 
I hope you have been taught to judge properly of such men, 
and that it would be even madness to expect happiness from 
one who has been so very bad an economist 1 of his own. 
Your mother and I have now better prospects for you. The 


manager. 


62 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


next winter, which yon will probably spend in town, will give 
you opportunities of making a more prudent choice.” 

What Sophia’s reflections were upon this occasion I can’t 
pretend to determine; but I was not displeased, at the bottom, 
that we were rid of a guest from whom I had much to fear. 
Our breach of hospitality went to my conscience a little; but 
I quickly silenced that monitor by two or three specious rea- 
sons, which served to satisfy and reconcile me to myself. 
The pain which conscience gives the man who has already 
done wrong is soon got over. Conscience is a coward, and 
those faults it has not strength enough to prevent, it seldom 
has justice enough to punish by accusing. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

FRESH MORTIFICATION'S ; OR A DEMONSTRATION THAT SEEM- 
ING CALAMITIES MAY BE REAL BLESSINGS. 

The journey of my daughters to town was now resolved 
upon, Mr. Thornhill having kindly promised to inspect their 
conduct himself, and inform us by letter of their behavior. 
But it was thought indispensably necessary that their appear- 
ance should equal the greatness of their expectations, which 
could not be done without some expense. We debated there- 
fore in full council what were the easiest methods of raising 
money, or, more properly speaking, what we could most con- 
veniently sell. The deliberation was soon finished; it was 
found that our remaining horse was utterly useless for the 
plough, without his companion, and equally unfit for the 
road, as wanting an eye; it was therefore determined that we 
should dispose of him for the purposes above mentioned, at 
the neighboring fair, and, to prevent imposition, that I should 
go with him myself. Though this was one of the first mer- 
cantile transactions of my life, yet I had no doubt about 


FRESH MORTIFICATIONS. 


68 


acquitting myself witli reputation. The opinion a man forms 
of his own prudence is measured by that of the company he 
keeps; and as mine 1 was mostly in the family way, I had 
conceived no unfavorable sentiments ot* my worldly wisdom. 
My wife, however, next morning, at parting, after I had got 
some paces from the door, called me back to advise me, in 
a whisper, to have all my eyes about me. 

I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the fair, put my 
horse through all his paces; but for some time had no bid- 
ders. At last a chapman 2 approached, and after he had for 
a good while examined the horse round, finding him blind of 
one eye, would have nothing to say to him: a second came 
up, but observing he had a spavin, declared he would not take 
him for the driving home: a third perceived he had a wind- 
gall, and would bid no money : a fourth knew by his eye that he 
had the botts: a fifth, more impertinent than all the rest, 
wondered what a plague I could do at the fair with a blind, 
spavined, galled hack, that was only fit to be cut up for a 
dog-kennel. By this time I began to have a most hearty con- 
tempt for the poor animal myself, and was almost ashamed at 
the approach of every new customer; for though I did not 
entirely believe all the fellows told me, yet I reflected that 
the number of witnesses was a strong presumption they were 
right; and St. Gregory, “Upon Good Works,” professes him- 
self to be of the same opinion . 3 

I was in this mortifying situation, when a brother clergy- 
man, an old acquaintance, who had also business at the fair, 
came up, and shaking me by the hand, proposed adjourning 
to a public-house, and taking a glass of whatever we could 
get. I readily closed with the offer, and entering an ale- 
house, we were shown into a little back room, where there was 
only a venerable old man, who sat wholly intent over a large 
book, which he was reading. I never in my life saw a figure 


i my company. 2 a travelling merchant. 

3 Wherein lies the fallacy of the analogy ? 


61 


THE YICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


that prepossessed me more favorably. His locks of silver gray 
venerably shaded his temples, and his green old age seemed to 
be the result of health and benevolence. However, his pres- 
ence did not interrupt our conversation; my friend and I dis- 
coursed on the various turns of fortune we had met; the 
Whistonian 1 controversy, my last pamphlet , 2 the archdeacon’s 
reply, and the hard measure that was dealt me. But our 
attention was in a short time taken off by the appearance of 
a youth who, entering the room, respectfully said something 
softly to the old stranger. — “Make no apologies, my child,” 
said the old man, “to do good is a duty we owe to all our 
fellow-creatures; take this, I wish it were more; but five 
pounds will relieve your distress, and you are welcome.” 
The modest youth, shed tears of gratitude, and yet his wel- 
come was scarce equal to mine. I could have hugged the 
good old man in my arms, his benevolence pleased me so. 
He continued to read, and we resumed our conversation, until 
my companion, after some time, recollecting that he had busi- 
ness to transact in the fair, promised to be soon back; adding 
that he always desired to have as much of Dr. Primrose’s 
company as possible. The old gentleman-, hearing my name 
mentioned, seemed to look at me with attention, and when 
my friend was gone, most respectfully demanded if I was any 
way related to the great Primrose, that courageous monoga- 
mist who had been the bulwark of the church. Never did 
my heart feel sincerer rapture than at that moment. — “ Sir,” 
cried I, “the applause of so good a man as I am sure you 
are , 3 adds to that happiness in my breast which your benevo- 
lence has already excited. You behold before you, sir, that 
Dr. Primrose, the monogamist, whom you have been pleased 
to call great. You here see that unfortunate divine, who 
has so long, and it would ill become me to say, successfully, 
fought against the deuterogamy 4 of the age.” — “Sir,” cried 


1 See p. 5. 

2 on monogamy. 


3 Why was he so sure ? 

4 marrying a second time. 


FRESH MORTIFICATIONS. 


65 


the stranger, struck with awe, “ I fear I have been too famil- 
iar; but you’ll forgive my curiosity, sir: I beg pardon.” — 
“ Sir,” cried I, grasping his hand, “you are so far from dis- 
pleasing me by your familiarity, that I must beg you’ll accept 
my friendship, as you already have my esteem.” — “Then 
with gratitude I accept the otter,”. cried he, squeezing me by 
the hand, “ thou glorious pillar of unshaken orthodoxy! and 
do I behold — ” I here interrupted what he was going to say; 
for though, as an author, I could digest no small share of flat- 
tery, yet now my modesty would permit no more. However, 
no lovers in romance ever cemented a more instantaneous 
friendship. We talked upon several subjects: at first I 
thought he seemed rather devout than learned, and began to 
think he despised all human doctrines as dross. Yet this no 
way lessened him in my esteem; for I had for some time 
begun privately to harbor such an opinion myself. I there- 
fore took occasion to observe that the world in general began 
to be blamably indifferent as to doctrinal matters, and fol- 
lowed human speculations 1 too much. — “ Ay, sir,” replied he, 
as if he had reserved all his learning to that moment, “ay, 
sir, the world is in its dotage, and yet the cosmogony or cre- 
ation of the world has puzzled philosophers of all ages. What 
a medley of opinions have they not broached upon the cre- 
ation of the world! Sanconiathon , 2 3 Manetho, Berosus, and 
Ocellus Lucanus, have all attempted it in vain. The latter 
has these words, Anarchon ara kai atelutaion to pan * which 
imply that all things have neither beginning nor end. Ma- 
netho also, who lived about the time of Nebuchadon- Asser 4 5 — 
Asser being a Syriac word usually applied as a surname to the 
kings of that country, as Teglat Phael- Asser, Nabon- Asser — 

1 philosophies based upon other than author cited, and means “ The Universe is 

divine foundation. without beginning and without end.” 

2 These are actual names, but a more par- 4 This name and that following are more 
ticular knowledge of them is not necessary, familiar to us in the form of the King 

3 Greek written in English letters. It is James version: Nebuchadnezzar, II Kings, 

said to be an actual quotation from the xxiv. 1; Tiglath-pileser, II Kings, xvi. 7. 

5 


66 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


he, I say, formed a conjecture 1 equally absurd; for, as we 
usually say, eh to biblion hubernetes ,* which implies that 
hooks will never teach the world; so he attempted to investi- 
gate — but, sir, I ask pardon, I am straying from the question.” 

That he actually was; nor could I for my life see how the 
creation of the world had anything to do with the business 
I was talking of; but it was sufficient to show me that he was 
a man of letters , 3 and I now reverenced him the more. I was 
resolved therefore to bring him to the touchstone 4 ; but he 
was too mild and too gentle to contend for victory. When- 
ever I made an observation that looked like a challenge to 
controversy, he would smile, shake his head, and say nothing; 
by which I understood he could say much, if he thought 
proper. The subject therefore insensibly changed from the 
business of antiquity to that which brought us both to the 
fair : mine, I told him, was to sell a horse, and very luckily 
indeed, his was to buy one for one of his tenants. My horse 
was soon produced, and, in fine, we struck a bargain. Noth- 
ing now remained but to pay me, and he accordingly pulled 
out a thirty-pound note, and bid me change it. Not being in 
a capacity of complying with this demand, he ordered the 
landlady to call up his footman, who made his appearance in 
a very genteel livery. — “ Here, Abraham,” cried he, “go and 
get gold for this; you’ll do it at neighbor Jackson’s, or any- 
where.” While the fellow was gone, he entertained me with 
a pathetic harangue on the great scarcity of silver, which I 
undertook to improve, by deploring also the great scarcity of 
gold; and by the time Abraham returned, we had both agreed 
that money was never so hard to be come at as now. Abra- 
ham returned to inform us that he had been over the whole 
fair, and could not get change, though he had offered half 
a crown for doing it. This was a very great disappointment 

1 It need hardly he said that the gentle- 3 i.e., a scholar. 

man’s learning was largely conjectural. 4 to see what he really amounted to : a 

2 management from a book: the Greek is touchstone is a piece of jasper used to test 

not quite correct. the quality of metals. 


FRESH MORTIFICATIONS. 


67 


to us all; but the old gentleman, having paused a little, asked 
me if I knew one Solomon Flamborougli in my part of the 
country. Upon replying that he was my next-door neighbor, 
“ If that be the case then,” returned he, “ I believe we shall 
deal. You shall have a draft upon him, payable at sight; 
and let me tell you, he is as warm 1 a man as any within five 
miles round him. Honest Solomon and I have been ac- 
quainted for many years together. I remember I always beat 
him at three jumps; but he could hop upon one leg farther 
than I.” A draft upon my neighbor was to me the same as 
money; for I was sufficiently convinced of his ability. The 
draft was signed, and put into my hands, and Mr. Jenkinson, 
the old gentleman, his man Abraham, and my horse, old 
Blackberry, trotted off very well pleased with each other. 

Being now left to reflection, I began to recollect that I had 
done wrong in taking a draft from a stranger, and so pru- 
dently resolved upon following the purchaser, and having 
back my horse. But this was now too late: I therefore made 
directly homewards, resolving to get the draft changed into 
money at my friend’s as fast as possible. I found my honest 
neighbor smoking his pipe at his own door, and informing 
him that I had a small bill upon him, he read it twice over. — 
“You can read the name, I suppose,” cried I, “Ephraim 
Jenkinson.” — “Yes,” returned he, “the name is written 
plain enough, and I know the gentleman, too: the greatest 
rascal under the canopy of heaven. This is the very same 
rogue who sold us 2 the spectacles. Was he not a venerable- 
looking man, with gray hair, and no flaps to his pocket-holes? 
And did he not talk a long string of learning about Greek, 
and cosmogony, and the world?” To this I replied with a 
groan. “Ay,” continued he, “he has but that one piece of 
learning in the world, and he always talks it away whenever 
he finds a scholar in company; but I know the rogue, and 
will catch him yet.” 


i well off : cf. warm fortunes, p. 77. 


2 himself and Moses. 


68 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my greatest 
struggle was to come, in facing my wife and daughters. No 
truant was ever more afraid of returning to school, there to 
behold the master’s sweet visage , 1 than I was of going home. 
I was determined, however, to anticipate their fury, by first 
falling into a passion myself. 

But alas! upon entering, I found the family no way dis- 
posed for battle. My wife and girls were all in tears, Mr. 
Thornhill having been there that day to inform them that 
their journey to town was entirely over . 2 The two ladies, 
having heard reports of us from some malicious person about 
us, were that day set out for London. He could neither dis- 
cover the tendency, nor the author of these; but whatever 
they might be, or whoever might have broached them, he 
continued to assure our family of his friendship and protec- 
tion. I found, therefore, that they bore my disappointment 
with great resignation, as it was eclipsed in the greatness of 
their own. But what perplexed us most was to think who 
could be so base as to asperse the character of a family so 
harmless as ours, too humble to excite envy, and too inoffen- 
sive to create disgust. 


CHAPTER XV. 

ALL MR. BURCHELL’S VILLAINY AT ONCE DETECTED. THE 
FOLLY OF BEING OYER WISE. 

That evening, and a part of the following day, was em- 
ployed in fruitless attempts to discover our enemies 3 ; scarcely 
a family in the neighborhood but incurred our suspicions, and 
each of us had reasons for our opinions best known to our- 
selves. As we were in this perplexity, one of our little boys, 
who had been playing abroad, brought in a letter-case, which 

1 1 knew him well, and every truant 2 quite given up. 

knew —Deserted Village, 198. * 3 those who had aspersed them. 


ALL MR. BURCHELL’S VILLAINY AT ONCE DETECTED. 69 

he found on the green. It was quickly known to belong to 
Mr. Burchell, with whom it had been seen, and, upon exami- 
nation, contained some hints upon different subjects; but 
what particularly engaged our attention was a sealed note, 
superscribed, The copy of a letter to be sent to the two ladies 1 
at Thornhill Castle. It instantly occurred that he was the 
base informer, and we deliberated whether the note should 
not be broken open. I was against it; but Sophia, who said 
she was sure that of all men he would be the last to be guilty 
of so much baseness, insisted upon its being read. In this 
she was seconded by the rest of the family, and at their joint 
solicitation I read as follows: 

“ Ladies: — The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to the 
person from whom this comes: one at least the friend of inno- 
cence, and ready to prevent its being deceived. I am in- 
formed for a truth, that you have some intentions of bringing 
two young ladies to town, whom I have some knowledge of, 
under the character of companions. As I would neither have 
simplicity imposed upon, nor virtue contaminated, I must 
offer it as my opinion that the impropriety of such a step will 
‘be attended with dangerous consequences. It has never been 
my way to treat the infamous with severity; nor should I now 
have taken this method of explaining myself, or reproving 
folly, did it not aim at guilt. Take therefore the admonition 
of a friend, and seriously reflect on the consequences of intro- 
ducing infamy and vice into retreats where , peace and inno- 
cence have hitherto resided.” 

Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed indeed 
something applicable to both sides in this letter, and its cen- 
sures might as well be referred to those to whom it was writ- 
ten as to us ; but the malicious meaning was obvious , 2 and 


1 Lady Blarney and Miss Skeggs. 
a The meaning might, of course, be taken either way. 


70 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


we went no farther. My wife had scarce patience to hear me 
to the end, but railed at the writer with unrestrained resent- 
ment. Olivia was equally severe, and Sophia seemed perfectly 
amazed at his baseness. As for my part, it appeared to me 
one of the vilest instances of unprovoked ingratitude I had 
met with; nor could I account for it in any other manner than 
by imputing it to his desire of detaining my youngest daugh- 
ter in the country, to have the more frequent opportunities of 
an interview. In this manner we all sat ruminating upon 
schemes of vengeance, when our other little boy came run- 
ning in to tell us that Mr. Burchell was approaching at the 
other end of the field. It is easier to conceive than describe 
the complicated sensations which are felt from the pain of a 
recent injury, and the pleasure of approaching vengeance. 
Though our intentions were only to upbraid him with his in- 
gratitude, yet it was resolved to do it in a manner that would 
be perfectly cutting. For this purpose we agreed to meet 
him with our usual smiles; to chat in the beginning with 
more than ordinary kindness; to amuse him a little; but 
then, in the mids£ of the flattering calm, to burst upon him 
like an earthquake, and overwhelm him with the sense of his 
own baseness. This being resolved upon, my wife undertook 
to manage the business herself, as she really had some talents 
for such an undertaking. We saw him approach; he entered, 
drew a chair, and sat down. 

“A fine day, Mr. Burchell.” — “A very fine day, Doctor; 
though I fancy we shall have some rain by the shooting of my 
corns.” — “The shooting of your horns!” cried my wife in 
a loud fit of laughter, and then asked pardon for being fond 
of a joke. — “ Dear madam,” replied he, “ I pardon you with 
all my heart, for I protest I should not have thought it a joke 
till you told me.” — “ Perhaps not, sir,” cried my wife, wink- 
ing at us; “and yet I dare say you can tell us how many 
jokes go to an ounce.” — “I fancy, madam,” returned Bur- 
chell, “you have been reading a jest book this morning, that 


ALL MR. BURCHELL’s VILLAINY AT ONCE DETECTED. 71 


ounce of jokes is so very good a conceit; and yet, madam, I 
had rather see half an ounce of understanding.” — “I believe 
you might,” cried my wife, still smiling at us, though the 
laugh was against her; “and yet I have seen some men pre- 
tend to understanding that have very little.” — “And no 
doubt,” returned her antagonist, “ you have known ladies set 
up for wit that had none.” 

I quickly began to find that’ my wife was likely to gain but 
little at this business; so I resolved to treat him in a style of 
more severity myself. 

“Both wit and understanding,” cried I, “are trifles, with- 
out integrity; it is that which gives value to every character. 
The ignorant peasant, without fault, is greater than the phi- 
losopher with many; for what is genius or courage without a 
heart? An honest man’s the noblest work of God .” 

“ I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope,” 1 returned 
Mr. Burchell, “ as very unworthy a man of genius, and a base 
desertion of his own superiority. As the reputation of books 
is raised, not by their freedom from defect, but the greatness 
of their beauties; so should that of men be prized, not for 
their exemption from fault, but the size of those virtues they 
are possessed of. The scholar may want prudence, the states- 
man may have pride, and the champion ferocity; but shall we 
prefer to these men the low mechanic, who laboriously plods 
on through life without censure or applause? We might as 
well prefer the tame correct paintings of the Flemish school 8 
to the erroneous but sublime animations of the Roman 
pencil.” 3 

“Sir,” replied I, “your present observation is just, when 
there are shining virtues and minute defects; but when it 
appears that great vices are opposed in the same mind to as 
extraordinary virtues, such a character deserves contempt.” 

1 “The Essay on Man,” iv. 248. 3 He probably had in mind Michael An- 

2 Mr. Burchell was thinking of Teniers, gelo and Raphael. When he says “erro- 

and seems to have forgotten Rubens and neous,” he merely means that they neg- 
Vandyke. lected matters of minor correctness. 


72 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


“Perhaps,” cried he, “there may be some such monsters 
as you describe, of great vices joined to great virtues; yet in 
my progress through life, I never yet found one instance of 
their existence; on the contrary, I have ever perceived, that 
where the mind was capacious, the affections were good. And, 
indeed, Providence seems kindly our friend in this particular, 
thus to debilitate the understanding where the heart is cor- 
rupt, and diminish the power where there is the will to do 
mischief. This rule seems to extend even to other animals : 
the little vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel, and cow- 
ardly, whilst those endowed with strength and power are gen- 
erous, brave, and gentle.” 

“These observations sound well,” returned I, “and yet it 
would be easy this moment to point out a man,” and I fixed 
my eye steadfastly upon him, “whose head and heart form 
a most detestable contrast. Ay, sir,” continued I, raising my 
voice, “and I am glad to have this opportunity of detecting 
him in the midst of his fancied security. Do you know this, 
sir, this pocket-book?” — “Yes, sir,” returned he, with a 
face of impenetrable assurance, “that pocket-book is mine, 
and I am glad you have found it.” — “And do you know,” 
cried I, “this letter? Nay, never falter, man; but look me 
full in the face: I say, do you know this letter?” — “That 
letter?” returned he; “yes, it was I that wrote that letter.” 
— “And how could you,” said I, “so basely, so ungratefully 
presume to write this letter?” — “And how came you,” 
replied he, with looks of unparalleled effrontery, “ so basely 
to presume to break open this letter ? Don’t you know, now, 
I could hang you all for this ? All that I have to do is to 
swear at the next Justice’s, that you have been guilty of 
breaking open the lock of my pocket-book, and so hang you 1 
all up at this door.” This piece of unexpected insolence 


1 The English criminal law at this time real importance. But a man could inspect 
was very severe and inflicted the death pen- a pocket-book which he had picked up with- 
alty for many offences, some of them of no out danger of being hanged. 


ALL MR. BURCHELL’S VILLAINY AT ONCE DETECTED. 73 

raised me to such a pitch that I could scarcely govern my 
passion. — “ Ungrateful wretch! begone, and no longer pol- 
lute my dwelling with thy baseness! begone, and never let me 
see thee again! Go from my doors, and the only punishment 
I wish thee is an alarmed conscience, which will be a sufficient 
tormentor! ” So saying, I threw him his pocket-book, which 
he took up with a smile, and shutting the clasps with the 
utmost composure, left us, quite astonished at the serenity of 
his assurance. My wife was particularly enraged that nothing 
could make him angry, or make him seem ashamed of his 
villainies. “My dear,” cried I, willing to calm those pas- 
sions that had been raised too high among us, “ we are not to 
be surprised that bad men want shame; they only blush at 
being detected in doing good, but glory in their vices. 

“ Guilt and Shame, says the allegory , 1 were at first compan- 
ions, and in the beginning of their journey inseparably kept 
together. But their union was soon found to be disagreeable 
and inconvenient to both. Guilt gave Shame frequent un- 
easiness, and Shame often betrayed the secret conspiracies of 
Guilt. After long disagreement, therefore, they at length 
consented to part forever. Guilt boldly walked forward alone, 
to overtake Fate, that went before in the shape of an execu- 
tioner; but Shame, being naturally timorous, returned back 
to keep company with virtue, which in the beginning of their 
journey they had left behind. Thus, my children, after men 
have travelled through a few stages in vice, Shame forsakes 
them and returns back to wait upon the few virtues they have 
still remaining,” 

1 This allegory he related, as his little son had related the tale of giant and dwarf. 


74 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE FAMILY USE ART, WHICH IS OPPOSED WITH STILL 
GREATER. 

Whatever might have been Sophia’s sensations, the rest 
of the family was easily consoled for Mr. Burchell’s absence 
by the company of our landlord, whose visits now became 
more frequent, and longer. Though he had been disap- 
pointed in procuring my daughters the amusements of the 
town as he designed, he took every opportunity of supplying 
them with those little recreations which our retirement would 
admit of. He usually came in the morning, and while my 
son and I followed our occupations abroad, he sat with the 
family at home, and amused them by describing the town, 
with every part of which he was particularly acquainted. He 
could repeat all the observations that were retailed in the 
atmosphere of the playhouses , 1 and had all the good things of 
the high wits 2 by rote, long before they made their way into 
the jest books. The intervals between conversation were em- 
ployed in teaching my daughters piquet , 3 or sometimes in set- 
ting my two little ones to box, to make them sharp, as he 
called it: but the hopes of having him for a son-in-law in 
some measure blinded us to all his defects. It must be owned 
that my wife laid a thousand schemes to entrap him; or, to 
speak it more tenderly, used every art to magnify the merit of 
her daughter. If the cakes at tea eat 4 short and crisp, they 
were made by Olivia; if the gooseberry wine was well knit , 5 
the gooseberries were of her gathering; it was her fingers 
which gave the pickles their peculiar green; and in the com- 
position of a pudding, her judgment was infallible. Then 
the poor woman would sometimes tell the Squire that she 


1 theatres. 

3 the clever men of the town. 
3 a game of cards for two. 


4 tasted : this form of the past and this 

meaning of the word have almost disap- 

peared. 6 mixed, compounded. 


THE FAMILY USE ART. 


75 


thought him and Olivia extremely like each other, and would 
bid both stand up to see which was tallest. These instances 
of cunning, which she thought impenetrable, yet which every- 
body saw through, were very pleasing to our benefactor, who 
gave every day some new proofs of his passion, which, though 
they had not arisen to proposals of marriage, yet we thought 
fell but little short of it: and his slowness was attributed 
sometimes to native bashfulhess, and sometimes to his fear of 
offending a rich uncle. An occurrence, however, which hap- 
pened soon after, put it beyond a doubt that he designed to 
become one of our family; my wife even regarded it as an 
absolute promise. 

My wife and daughters, happening to return a visit to 
neighbor Flamborough’s, found that family had lately got 
their pictures drawn by a limner, who travelled the country, 
and did them for fifteen shillings a head. As this family and 
ours had long a sort of rivalry in point of taste, our spirit took 
the alarm at this stolen march upon us, and notwithstanding 
all I could say, and I said much, it was resolved that we 
should have our pictures done too. Having, therefore, en- 
gaged the limner — for what could I do ? — our next delibera- 
tion was, to show the superiority of our taste in the attitude. 
As for our neighbor’s family, there were seven of them, and 
they were drawn with seven oranges, a thing quite out of 
taste, no variety in life, no composition in the world. We 
desired to have something done in a brighter style, and after 
many debates, at length came to a unanimous resolution to 
be drawn together in one large historical family piece. This 
would be cheaper, since one frame would serve for all, and it 
would be infinitely more genteel; for all families of any taste 
were now drawn in the same manner. As we did not imme- 
diately recollect an historical subject to hit us, we were con- 
tented each with being drawn as independent historical fig- 
ures. My wife desired to be represented as Venus , 1 with a 

1 Venus was the Roman goddess of love. 


76 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


stomacher richly set with diamonds, and her two little ones as 
Cupids by her side, while I, in my gown and band, was to present 
her with my books on the Whistonian controversy. Olivia 
would be drawn as an Amazon sitting upon a bank of flowers, 
dressed in a green joseph , 1 richly laced with gold, and a whip in 
her hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep 
as the painter could put in for nothing; and Moses was to be 
dressed out with a hat and white feather. Our taste so much 
pleased the Squire, that he insisted on being put in as one of 
the family in the character of Alexander the Great , 2 at Olivia’s 
feet. This was considered by us all as an indication of his 
desire to be introduced into the family in reality, nor could 
we refuse his request. The painter was therefore set to work, 
and as he wrought with assiduity and expedition, in less than 
four days the whole was completed. The piece was large, and 
it must be owned he did not spare his colors; for which my 
wife gave him great encomiums. We were all perfectly satis- 
fied with his performance; but an unfortunate circumstance 
had not occurred till the picture was finished, which now 
struck us with dismay. It was so very large that we had no 
place in the house to fix it. How we all came to disregard so 
material a point is inconceivable ; but certain it is, we had 
been all greatly remiss. Instead, therefore, of gratifying 
our vanity, as we hoped, there it leaned, in a most mor- 
tifying manner, against the kitchen wall, where the canvas 
was stretched and painted, much too large to be got through 
any of the doors, and the jest of all our neighbors. One com- 
pared it to Kobinson Crusoe’s long-boat, too large to be re- 
moved; another thought it more resembled a reel in a bottle : 3 
some wondered how it should be got out, and still more were 
amazed how it ever got in. 

But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effectually 


1 an outside coat, rather like a man’s. . 3 One sometimes nowadays sees various 

2 The great conqueror was long after the objects blown in bottles, 

fabled time of the Amazons. 


THE FAMILY USE ART. 


77 


raised more ill-natured suggestions in many. The Squire’s 
portrait being found united with ours was an honor too great 
to escape envy. Malicious whispers began to circulate at our 
expense, and our tranquillity continually to be disturbed by 
persons who came as friends to tell us what was said of us by 
enemies. These reports we always resented, with becoming 
spirit; but scandal ever improves by opposition. We again, 
therefore, entered into a consultation upon obviating the 
malice of our enemies, and at last came to a resolution which 
had too much cunning to give me entire satisfaction. It was 
this: as our principal object was to discover the honor of Mr. 
Thornhill’s addresses , 1 my wife undertook to sound him, by 
pretending to ask his advice in the choice of a husband for 
her eldest daughter. If this was not found sufficient to in- 
duce him to a declaration, it was then fixed upon to terrify 
him with a rival, which it was thought would compel him, 
though never so refractory. To this last step, however, I 
would' by no means give my consent, till Olivia gave me the 
most solemn assurances that she would marry the person pro- 
vided to rival him upon this occasion, if Mr. Thornhill did 
not prevent it, by taking her himself. Such was the scheme 
laid, which, though I did not strenuously oppose, I did not 
entirely approve. 

The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill came to see 
us, my girls took care to be out of the way, in order to give 
their mamma an opportunity of putting her scheme in execu- 
tion; but they only retired to the next room, from whence 
they could overhear the whole conversation, which my wife 
artfully introduced by observing that one of the Miss Flam- 
boroughs was like to have a very good match of it in Mr. 
Spanker. To this the Squire assenting, she proceeded to 
remark that they who had warm fortunes were always sure of 
getting good husbands: “But heaven help,” continued she, 
“ the girls that have none. What signifies beauty, Mr. Thorn- 

1 Did he wish to marry Olivia, or was he only flirting ? 


78 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


hill ? or what signifies all the virtue, and all the qualifications 
in the world, in this age of self-interest ? It is not, what is 
she? but, what has she? is all the cry.” 

“ Madam,” returned he, “I highly approve the justice, as 
well as the novelty of your remarks, and if I were a king it 
should be otherwise. It would then, indeed, be fine times 
with the girls without fortunes: our two young ladies should 
be the first for whom I would provide.” 

“Ah, sir,” returned my wife, “you are pleased to be face- 
tious, but I wish I were a queen, and then I know where they 
should look for a husband. But, now that you have put it 
into my head, seriously, Mr. Thornhill, can’t you recommend 
me a proper husband for my eldest girl? she is now nineteen 
years old, well grown and well educated, and, in my humble 
opinion, does not want for parts.” 

“Madam,” replied he, “if I were to choose, I would find 
out a person possessed of every accomplishment that can make 
an angel happy. One with prudence, fortune, taste, and sin- 
cerity; such, madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper hus- 
band.” — “Ay, sir,” said she, “but do you know of any such 
person ? ” 

“ No, madam,” returned he, “ it is impossible to know any 
person that deserves to be her husband: she’s too great a 
treasure for one man’s possession; she’s a goddess! Upon 
my soul, I speak what I think, she’s an angel! ” — “ Ah, Mr. 
Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl; but we have been 
thinking of marrying her to one of your tenants, whose 
mother is lately dead, and who wants a manager 1 : you know 
whom I mean. Farmer Williams; a warm man, Mr. Thornhill, 
able to give her good bread; ay, and who has several times 
made her proposals” (which was actually the case); “but, 
sir,” concluded she, “I should be glad to have your approba- 
tion of our choice.” — “How, madam,” replied he, “my 
approbation! My approbation of such a choice! Never. 

1 Some one to keep house for him. 


THE POWER OF TEMPTATION. 


79 


What! sacrifice so much beauty, and sense, and goodness to 
a creature insensible of the blessing! Excuse me, I can never 
approve of such a piece of injustice! And I have my rea- 
sons.” — “Indeed, sir,” cried Deborah, “if you have your 
reasons, that’s another affair: but I should be glad to know 
those reasons.” — “Excuse me, madam,” returned he, “they 
lie too deep for discovery (laying his hand upon his bosom); 
they remain buried, riveted here.” 

After he was gone, upon a general consultation, we could 
not tell what to make of these fine sentiments. Olivia con- 
sidered them as instances of the most exalted passion; but I 
was not quite so sanguine; it seemed to me pretty plain that 
they had more of love than matrimony in them : yet whatever 
they might portend, it was resolved to prosecute the scheme 
of Farmer Williams, who, since my daughter’s first appearance 
in the country, had paid her his addresses. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

SCARCE ANY VIRTUE FOUND TO RESIST THE POWER OF LONG 
AND PLEASING TEMPTATION. 

As I only studied my child’s real happiness, the assiduity 
of Mr. Williams pleased me, as he was in easy circumstances, 
prudent, and sincere. It required but very little encourage- 
ment to revive his former passion; so that in an evening or 
two after, he and Mr. Thornhill met at our house, and sur- 
veyed each other for some time with looks of anger; but Wil- 
liams owed his landlord no rent, and little regarded his indig- 
nation. Olivia, on her side, acted the coquette to perfection, 
if that might be called acting which was her real character, 
pretending to lavish all her tenderness on her new lover. Mr. 
Thornhill appeared quite dejected at this preference, and with 
a pensive air took leave, though I own it puzzled me to find 
him so much in pain as he appeared to be, when he had it in 


80 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


his power so easily to remove the cause, by declaring an honor- 
able passion. But whatever uneasiness he seemed to endure, 
it could easily be perceived that Olivia’s anguish was still 
greater. After any of these interviews between her lovers, of 
which there were several, she usually retired to solitude, and 
there indulged her grief. It was in such a situation I found 
her one evening, after she had been for some time supporting 
a fictitious gayety. 

“You now see, my child,” said I, “that your confidence 
in Mr. Thornhill’s passion was all a dream: he permits the 
rivalry of another, every way his inferior, though he knows it 
lies in his power to secure you by a candid declaration him- 
self.” — “Yes, papa,” returned she, “but he has his reasons 
for this delay: I know he has. The sincerity of his looks and 
words convinces me of his real esteem. A short time, I hope, 
will discover the generosity of his sentiments, and convince 
you that my opinion of him has been more just than yours.” 
— “ Olivia, my darling,” returned I, “every scheme that has 
been hitherto pursued to compel him to a declaration has been 
proposed and planned by yourself, nor can you in the least 
say that I have constrained you. But you must not suj>pose, 
my dear, that I will ever be instrumental in suffering his 
honest rival to be the dupe of your ill-placed passion. What- 
ever time you require to bring your fancied admirer to an 
explanation shall be granted; but at the expiration of that 
term, if he is still regardless, I must absolutely insist that 
honest Mr. Williams shall, be rewarded for his fidelity. The 
character which I have hitherto supported in life demands 
this from me, and my tenderness as a parent shall never influ- 
ence my integrity as a man. Name, then, your day; let it be 
as distant as you think proper; and in the mean time take 
care to let Mr. Thornhill know the exact time on which I 
design delivering you up to another. If he really loves you, 
his own good sense will readily suggest that there is but one 
method alone to prevent his losing you forever.” This pro- 


THE POWER OF TEMPTATION. 


81 


posal, which she could not avoid considering as perfectly just, 
was readily agreed to. She again renewed her most positive 
promise of marrying Mr. Williams, in case of the other’s 
insensibility; and at the next opportunity, in Mr. ThornhiH’s 
presence, that day month was fixed upon for her nuptials with 
his rival. 

Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr. Thorn- 
hill’s anxiety: but what Olivia really felt gave me some un- 
easiness. In this struggle between prudence and passion, her 
vivacity quite forsook her, and every opportunity of solitude 
was sought, and spent in tears. One week passed away; but 
her lover made no efforts to restrain her nuptials. The suc- 
ceeding week he was still assiduous, but not more open. On 
the third he discontinued his visits entirely, and instead of 
my daughter testifying any impatience as I expected, she 
seemed to retain a pensive tranquillity, which I looked upon 
as resignation. For my own part, I was now sincerely pleased 
with thinking that my child was going to be secured in a con- 
tinuance of competence and peace, and frequently applauded 
her resolution. 

It was within about four days of her intended nuptials, that 
my little family at night were gathered round a charming fire, 
telling stories of the past, and laying schemes for the future. 
Busied in forming a thousand projects, and laughing at what- 
ever folly came uppermost, “Well, Moses,” cried I, “we 
shall soon, my hoy, have a wedding in the family: what is 
your opinion of matters and things in general ? ”■ — “ My opin- 
ion, father, is, that all things go on very well; and I was just 
now thinking, that when sister Livy is married to Farmer 
Williams, we shall then have the loan of his cider-press and 
brewing tubs for nothing.” — “ That we shall, Moses,” cried I, 
“and he will sing us 4 Death and the Lady ,’ 1 to raise our 
spirits, into the bargain.” — “ He has taught that song to our 
Dick,” cried Moses, “and I think he goes through with it 

i a country ballad. 


6 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


very prettily.” — “Does he so?” cried I, “then let us have 
it: where’s little Dick? let him up with it boldly.” — “My 
brother Dick,” cried Bill, my youngest, “is just gone out 
with sister Livy: but Mr. Williams has taught me two songs, 
and I’ll sing them for you, papa. Which song do you choose, 
4 The Dying Swan,’ 1 or 4 The Elegy on the Death of a Mad 
Dog’?” — 4 4 The elegy, 8 child, by all means,” said I; 44 1 
never heard that yet; and Deborah, my life, grief you know 
is dry, let us have a bottle of the best gooseberry-wine, to 
keep up our spirits. I have wept so much at all sorts of 
elegies of late, that without an enlivening glass, I am sure 
this will overcome me; and Sophy, love, take your guitar, 
and thrum in with the boy a little.” 


AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 

Good people all, of every sort, 

Give ear unto my song, 

And if you find it wondrous short 
It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man, 

Of whom the world might say, 

That still a godly race he ran, 

Whene’er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes ; 

The naked every day he clad, 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be, 

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 

And curs of low degree. 

1 Goldsmith seems to have written the 2 An elegy is properly a mournful poem, 

title only of this ballad. usually on the death of some one. 


THE POWER OF TEMPTATION. 


83 


This dog and man at first were friends ; 

But when a pique began, 

The dog, to gain his private ends, 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets 
The wondering neighbors ran, 

And swore the dog had lost his wits, 

To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seemed both sore and sad 
To every Christian eye ; 

And while they swore the dog was mad, 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 

That show’d the rogues they lied ; 

The man recover’d of the bite — 

The dog it was that died. 

“ A very good boy. Bill, upon my word, and an elegy that 
may truly be called tragical. Come, my children, here’s 
Bill’s health, and may he one day be a bishop! ” 

“With all my heart,” cried my wife, “and if he but 
preaches as well as he sings, I make no doubt of him. The 
most of his family by the mother’s side could sing a good 
song: it was a common saying in our country, that the family 
of the Blenkinsops 1 could never look straight before them, 
nor the Hugginses blow out a candle; that there were none of 
the G-rograms but could sing a song, or of the Marjorams but 
could tell a story.” — “ However that be,” cried I, “the most 
vulgar ballad of them all generally pleases me better than the 
fine modern odes , 2 and things that petrify us in a single 
stanza: productions that we at once detest and praise. Put 
the glass to your brother, MQses. The great fault of these 

1 These and the following were families somewhat in fashion at this time. Those 

of Mrs. Primrose’s neighborhood. of Gray, written somewhat before the 

2 The ode, an elaborate lyrical form, was “Vicar,” are well known. 


84 


THE VICAR OE WAKEFIELD. 


elegisfcs is, tliat they are in despair for griefs that give the 
sensible part of mankind very little pain. A lady loses her 
lapdog, and so the silly poet runs home to versify the disaster. 

“ That may be the mode/’ cried Moses, “in sublimer com- 
positions; but the Ranelagh 1 songs that come down to us are 
perfectly familiar, and all cast in the same mould : Colin 2 
meets Dolly , 2 and they hold a dialogue together; he gives her 
a fairing to put in her hair, and she presents him with a nose- 
gay; and then they go together to a church, where they give 
good advice to young nymphs and swains to get married as 
fast as they can.” 

“And very good advice, too,” cried I; “and I am told 
there is not a place in the world where advice can be given 
with so much propriety as there; for as it persuades us to 
marry, it also furnishes us with a wife: and surely that must 
be an excellent market, my boy, where we are told what we 
want, and supplied with it when wanting.” 

“Yes, sir,” returned Moses, “and I know of but two such 
markets for wives in Europe : Ranelagh in England, and Eon- 
tarabia 3 in Spain. The Spanish market is open once a year ; 
but our English wives are salable every night.” — “You are 
right, my boy,” cried his mother, “ Old England is the only 
place in the world for husbands to get wives.” — “And for 
wives to manage their husbands,” interrupted I. “It is a 
proverb abroad, that if a bridge were built across the sea, all 
the ladies of the Continent would come over to take pattern 
from ours; for there are no such wives in Europe as our own. 
But let us have one bottle more, Deborah, my life; and Moses, 
give us a good song. What thanks do we not owe to Heaven 
for thus bestowing tranquillity, health, and competence! I 
think myself happier now than the greatest monarch upon 
earth. He has no such fireside, nor such pleasant faces about 

1 then a famous place of fashionable re- fashionable, but artificial songs of the 

sort in London. day. 

2 the affected names given to shepherds 3 in Northern Spain : it is said that the 
and shepherdesses who figured in the Biscayan girls congregated there. 


THE POWER OF TEMPTATION. 


85 


it. Yes, Deborah, my dear, we are now growing old ; but the 
evening of our life is likely to be happy. We are descended 
from ancestors that knew no stain, and we shall leave a good 
and virtuous race of children behind us. While we live, they 
will be our support and our pleasure here; and when we die, 
they will transmit our honor untainted to posterity. Come, 
my son, we wait for your song; let us have a chorus. But 
where is my darling Olivia? That little cherub’s voice is 
always sweetest in the concert.” 

Just as I spoke, Dick came running in. — “ Oh, papa, papa, 
she is gone from us, she is gone from us; my sister Livy is 
gone from us forever.” — “ Gone, child! ” — “ Yes, she is gone 
off with two gentlemen in a post-chaise, and one of them 
kissed her, and said he would die for her: and she cried very 
much, and was for coming back; but he persuaded her again, 
and she went into the chaise, and said, ‘ Oh, what will my 
poor papa do when he knows!’” — “Now, then,” cried I, 
“ my children, go and be miserable; for we shall never enjoy 
one hour more. And oh, may Heaven’s everlasting fury light 
upon him and his ! Thus to rob me of my child ! And sure 
it will, for taking back my sweet innocent that I was leading 
up to Heaven. Such sincerity as my child was possessed of! 
But all our earthly happiness is now over! Go, my children, 
go and be miserable and infamous; for my heart is broken 
within me! ” — “Father,” cried my son, “is this your forti- 
tude?” — “Fortitude, child! — yes, he shall see I have forti- 
tude! Bring me my pistols. I’ll pursue the traitor; while 
he is on earth I’ll pursue him. Old as I am, he shall find 
lean sting him yet. The villain! The perfidious villain! ” 
I had by this time reached down my pistols, when my poor 
wife, whose passions were not so strong as mine, caught me 
in her arms. — “ My dearest, dearest husband,” cried she, “ the 
Bible is the only weapon that is fit for your old hands now. 
Open that, my love, and read our anguish into patience, for 
she has vilely deceived us.” — Her sorrow repressed the rest in 


86 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


silence. — “ Indeed, sir/'’ resumed my son, after a pause, 
“ your rage is too violent and unbecoming. You should be 
my mother’s comforter, and you increase her pain. It ill 
suited you and your reverend character, thus to curse your 
greatest enemy; you should not have cursed the wretch, vil- 
lain as he is.”—' “ I did not curse him, child, did I ? ” — “ In- 
deed, sir, you did; you cursed him twice.” — “Then may 
Heaven forgive me and him if I did! And now, my son, 
I see it was more than human benevolence that first taught us 
to bless our enemies! Blessed be His holy name for all the 
good He has given, and for that He has taken away. But it 
is not — it is not a small distress that can wring tears from 
these old eyes, that have not wept for so many years. My 
child! To undo my darling ! May confusion seize — Heaven 
forgive me, what am I about to say! You may remember, my love, 
how good she was, and how charming; till this vile moment 
all her care was to make us happy. Had she but died! But 
she is gone, and I must look out for happiness in other worlds 
than here. But, my child, you saw them go off: perhaps he 
forced her away? If he forced her, she may yet be inno- 
cent.” — “Ah, no, sir,” cried the child; “he only kissed her, 
and called her his angel, and she wept very much, and leaned 
upon his arm, and they drove off very fast.” — “She’s an 
ungrateful creature,” cried my wife, who could scarce speak 
for weeping, “to use us thus. She never had the least con- 
straint put upon her affections. She has basely deserted her 
parents without any provocation, thus to bring your gray 
hairs to the grave; and I must shortly follow.” 

In this manner that night, the first of our real misfortunes, 
was spent in the bitterness of complaint and ill-supported 
sallies of enthusiasm. I determined, however, to find out our 
betrayer, wherever he was, and reproach his baseness. The 
next morning we missed our Avretched child at breakfast, 
where she used to give life and cheerfulness to us all. My 
wife, as before, attempted to ease her heart by reproaches. 


PURSUIT OF A FATHER TO RECLAIM A LOST CHILD. 87 

“Never,” cried she, “shall she again darken those harm- 
less doors. I will never call her daughter more.” 

“ Wife,” said I, “do not talk thus hardly; my detestation 
of her deceit is as great as yours; but ever shall this house 
and this heart be open to a poor returning repentant sinner. 
The sooner she returns from her transgression, the more wel- 
come shall she be to me. For the first time the very best 
may err; art may persuade, and novelty spread out its charm. 
The first fault is the child of simplicity, but every other the 
offspring of guilt. Yes, the wretched creature shall be wel- 
come to this heart and this house, though stained with ten 
thousand vices. I will again hearken to the music of her 
voice, again will I hang fondly on her bosom, if I find but 
repentance there. My son, bring hither my Bible and my 
staff; I will pursue her wherever she is; and though I cannot 
save her from shame, I may prevent the continuance of 
iniquity.” 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE PURSUIT OF A FATHER TO RECLAIM A LOST CHILD TO 
VIRTUE. 

Though the child could not describe the gentleman’s per- 
son, who handed his sister into the post-chaise, yet my sus- 
picions fell entirely upon our young landlord, whose character 
for such intrigues was but too well known. I therefore 
directed my steps towards Thornhill Castle, resolving to 
upbraid him, and if possible to bring back my daughter: but 
before I had reached his seat, I was met by one of my parish- 
ioners, who said he saw a young lady resembling my daughter, 
in a post-chaise with a gentleman, whom, by the description, 
I could only guess to be Mr. Burchell, and that they drove 
very fast. This information, however, did by no means sat- 
isfy me. I therefore went to the young Squire’s, and though 
it was yet early, insisted upon seeing him immediately. He 


88 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


soon appeared with the most open familiar air, and seemed 
perfectly amazed at my daughter’s elopement, protesting upon 
his honor that he was quite a stranger to it. I now, there- 
fore, condemned my former suspicions, and could turn them 
only on Mr. Burchell, who I recollected had of late several 
private conferences with her; but the appearance of another 
witness left me no room to doubt of his villainy, who averred 
that he and my daughter were actually gone towards the 
Wells , 1 about thirty miles off, where there was a great deal of 
company. Hearing this, I resolved to pursue them there. 
Being driven to that state of mind in which we all are more 
ready to act precipitately than to reason right, I never debated 
with myself whether these accounts might not have been 
given by persons purposely placed in my way to mislead me, 
but resolved to pursue my daughter and her fancied deluder 
thither. I walked along with earnestness, and inquired of 
several by the way; but received no accounts, till, entering 
the town, I was met by a person on horseback, whom I re- 
membered to have seen at the Squire’s, and he assured me 
that if I followed them to the races, which were but thirty 
miles farther, I might depend upon overtaking them; for he 
had seen them dance there the night before, and the whole 
assembly seemed charmed with my daughter’s performance. 
Early the next day, I walked forward to the races, and about 
four in the afternoon I came upon the course. The company 
made a very brilliant appearance, all earnestly employed in 
one pursuit, that of pleasure; how different from mine, that 
of reclaiming a lost child to virtue! I thought I perceived 
Mr. Burchell at some distance from me: but, as if he dreaded 
an interview, upon my approaching him he mixed among 
a crowd, and I saw him no more. I now reflected that it 
would be to no purpose to continue my pursuit farther, and 
resolved to return home to an innocent family who wanted my 
assistance. But the agitations of my mind, and the fatigues 

1 a watering-place. 


PURSUIT OF A FATHER TO RECLAIM A LOST CHILD. 89 


I had undergone, threw me into a fever, the symptoms of 
which I perceived before I came off the course. This was 
another unexpected stroke, as I was more than seventy miles 
distant from home; however, I retired to a little ale-house by 
the roadside, and in this place, the usual retreat of indigence 
and frugality, I laid me down patiently to wait the issue of 
my disorder. I languished here for near three weeks; but at 
last my constitution prevailed, though I was unprovided with 
money to defray the expenses of my entertainment. It is 
possible the anxiety from this last circumstance alone might 
have brought on a relapse, had I not been supplied by a trav- 
eller, who stopped to take a cursory refreshment. This 
person was no other than the philanthropic bookseller in St. 
Paul’s Church-yard , 1 who has written so many little books for 
children: he called himself their friend; but he was the 
friend of all mankind. He was no sooner alighted, but he 
was in haste to be gone; for he was ever on business of the 
utmost importance, and was at that time actually compiling 
materials for the history of one Mr. Thomas Trip . 2 I imme- 
diately recollected this good-natured man’s red-pimpled face; 
for he had published for me against the deuterogamists of the 
age, and from him I borrowed a few pieces, to be paid at my 
return. Leaving the inn, therefore, as I was yet but weak, 
I resolved to return home by easy journeys of ten miles a day. 
My health and usual tranquillity were almost restored, and I 
now condemned that pride which had made me refractory to 
the hand of correction. Man little knows what calamities are 
beyond his patience to bear, till he tries them : as in ascend- 
ing the heights of ambition, which look bright from below, 
every step we rise shows us some new prospect of hidden 
disappointment; so in our descent to the vale of wretched- 
ness, which, from the summits of pleasure, appears dark and 
gloomy, the busy mind, still attentive to its own amusement, 

i John Newberry, for whom Goldsmith had done a good deal of writing, including 

“ Goody Two Shoes.” 8 a child’s book of the day. 


90 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


finds something to flatter and surprise it. Still, as we de- 
scend, the objects appear to brighten, unexpected prospects 
amuse, and the mental eye becomes adapted to its gloomy 
situation. 

I now proceeded forward, and had walked about two hours, 
when I perceived what appeared at a distance like a wagon, 
which I was resolved to overtake; but when I came up with 
it, found it to be a strolling company’s 1 cart, that was carry- 
ing their scenes and other theatrical furniture to the next 
village, where they were to exhibit. The cart was attended 
only by the person who drove it, and one of the company, as 
the rest of the players were to follow the ensuing day. 
“Good company upon the road,” says the proverb, “is 
always the shortest cut.” I therefore entered into conversa- 
tion with the poor player; and as I once had some theatrical 
powers myself, I disserted on such topics with my usual free- 
dom; but as I was pretty much unacquainted with the pres- 
ent state of the stage, I demanded who were the present the- 
atrical writers in vogue, who the Drydens 2 and Otways 2 of 
the day? — “I fancy, sir,” cried the player, “few of our 
modern dramatists would think themselves much honored by 
being compared to the writers you mention. Dryden’s and 
Kowe’s 2 manner, sir, are quite out of fashion; our taste has 
gone back a whole century; Fletcher, Ben Jonson, and all the 
plays of Shakespeare are the only things that go down.” — 
“ How,” cried I, “ is it possible the present age can be pleased 
with that antiquated dialect , 3 that obsolete humor, those over- 
charged characters, which abound in the works you men- 
tion?” — “Sir,” returned my companion, “the public think 
nothing about dialect, or humor, or character, for that is 
none of their business; they only go to be amused, and find 

1 of actors. 3 Dr. Primrose was old-fashioned ; his 

2 Dryden and Otway were the leading view had prevailed between 1660 and 1700, 
dramatists of the end of the seventeenth cen- when writers rewrote and rearranged 
tury. Rowe was somewhat later; he was less Shakespeare in language and in form which 
distinguished and is now almost forgotten. they thought more elegant. 


PURSUIT OF A FATHER TO RECLAIM A LOST CHILD. 91 


themselves happy when they can enjoy a pantomime, under 
the sanction of Jonson’s or Shakespeare’s name.” — 44 So then, 
I suppose,” cried I, 44 that our modern dramatists are rather 
imitators of Shakespeare than of nature.” — 4 4 To say the 
truth,” returned my companion, 44 1 don’t know that they 
imitate anything at all; nor indeed does the public require it 
of them; it is not the composition of the piece, but the num- 
ber of starts and attitudes that may be introduced into it, that 
elicits applause. I have known a piece, with not one jest in 
the whole, shrugged into popularity, and another saved by 
the poet’s throwing in a fit of the gripes. No, sir, the works 
of Congreve and Farquliar 1 have too much wit in them for the 
present taste; our modern dialogue is much more natural.” 

By this time the equipage of the strolling company was 
arrived at the village, which it seems had been apprised of 
our approach, and was come out to gaze at us: for my com- 
panion observed that strollers always have more spectators 
without doors 2 than within. I did not consider the impro- 
priety 3 of my being in such company, till I saw a mob gath- 
ered about me. I therefore took shelter, as fast as possible, 
in the first ale-house that offered, and being shown into the 
common room, 4 was accosted by a very well-dressed gentle- 
man, who demanded whether I was the real chaplain of the 
company, or whether it was only to be my masquerade charac- 
ter in the play. Upon informing him of the truth, and that 
I did not belong to the company, he was condescending 
enough to desire me and the player to partake in a bowl of 
punch, over which he discussed modern politics with great 
earnestness and seeming interest. I set him down in my own 
mind for nothing less than a parliament-man at least; but 
was almost confirmed in my conjectures when, upon my ask- 
ing what there was in the house for supper, he insisted that 

1 writers of comedy a little later than Dry- 3 as a clergyman. 

d en . 4 the room for all the guests of the inn : 

2 of the theatre in whatever place they cf. the same expression on p. 137, for the 

ac t in. general room of the jail. 


92 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


the player and I should sup with him at his house ; with which 
request,, after some entreaties, I was prevailed on to comply. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE DESCRIPTION OF A PERSON DISCONTENTED WITH THE 

PRESENT GOVERNMENT, AND APPREHENSIVE OF THE LOSS 

OF OUR LIBERTIES. 

The house where we were to be entertained lying at a small 
distance from the village, our inviter observed that as the 
coach was not ready, he would conduct us on foot; and we 
soon arrived at one of the most magnificent mansions I had 
seen in the country. The apartment into which we were 
shown was perfectly elegant and modern; he went to give 
orders for supper, while the player, with a wink, observed 
that we were perfectly in luck. Our entertainer soon re- 
turned; an elegant supper was brought in, two or three ladies 
in an easy dishabille were introduced, and the conversation 
began with some sprightliness. Politics, however, was the 
subject on which our entertainer chiefly expatiated; for he 
asserted that liberty was at once his boast and his terror. 
After the cloth was removed , 1 he asked me if I had seen the 
last “ Monitor /’ 2 to which replying in the negative, “ What, 
nor the ‘ Auditor/ 2 I suppose? ” cried he. — “ Neither, sir,” 
returned I. — “That’s strange, very strange,” replied my 
entertainer. “Now I read all the politics that come out. 
The e Daily/ the 4 Public/ the * 4 Ledger/ the 4 Chronicle/ the 
‘London Evening/ the ‘Whitehall Evening/ the seventeen 
Magazines, and the two Reviews; and though they hate each 
other, I love them all. Liberty, sir, liberty is the Briton’s 
boast, and by all my coal mines in Cornwall/ I reverence its 
guardians.” — “ Then it is to be hoped,” cried I, “you rever- 

1 According to the old custom, after 2 political newspapers of the day. 

which the gentlemen continued at table 3 There are mines in Cornwall, but not 

with their wine. coal mines. 


A PERSON DISCONTENTED WITH THE GOVERNMENT. 93 


ence the king.” — “Yes,” returned my entertaineT, “when 
he does what we would have him; but if he goes on as he has 
done of late. I’ll never trouble myself more with his matters. 
I say nothing. I think only. I could have directed some 
things better. I don’t think there has been a sufficient num- 
ber of advisers; he should advise with every person willing to 
give him advice, and then we should have things done in 
another-guess 1 manner.” 

“ I wish,” cried I, “ that such intruding advisers were fixed 
in the pillory. It should be the duty of honest men to assist 
the weaker side of our constitution, that sacred power that 
has for some years been every day declining, and losing its 
due share of influence in the state. But these ignorants still 
continue the cry of liberty; and if they have any weight, 
basely throw it into the subsiding scale.” 

“How,” cried one of the ladies, “do I live to see one so 
base, so sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, and a defender 
of tyrants ? Liberty, that sacred gift of Heaven, that glorious 
privilege of Britons! ” 

“Can it be possible,” cried our entertainer, “that there 
should be any found at present advocates for slavery? Any 
who are for meanly giving up the privileges of Britons ? Can 
any, sir, be so abject?” 

“Ho, sir,” replied I, “I am for liberty, that attribute of 
gods! Glorious liberty! that theme of modern declamation. 
I would have all men kings. I would be a king myself. We 
have all naturally an equal right to the throne: we are all 
originally equal. This is my opinion, and was once the opin- 
ion of a set of honest men who were called Levellers . 2 They 
tried to erect themselves into a community, where all should 
be equally free. But, alas! it would never answer; for there 
were some among them stronger, and some more cunning 
than others, and these became masters of the rest; for as sure 

1 a vulgarism, meaning much the same as 2 a Puritan sect in the time of the Great 

“another.” Rebellion. 


94 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


as your groom rides your horses, because he is a cunninger 
animal than they, so surely will the animal that is cunninger 
or stronger than he, sit upon his shoulders in turn. Since, 
then, it is entailed upon humanity to submit, and some are 
born to command, and others to obey, the question is, as there 
must be tyrants, whether it is better to have them in the same 
house with us, or in the same village, or still farther off, in 
the metropolis. Now, sir, for my own part, as I naturally 
hate the face of a tyrant, the farther off he is removed from 
me, the better pleased am I. The generality of mankind also 
are of my way of thinking, and have unanimously created one 
king, whose election at once diminishes the number of tyrants, 
and puts tyranny at the greatest distance from the greatest 
number of people. Now, those who were tyrants themselves 
before the election of one tyrant, are naturally averse to a 
power raised over them, and whose weight must ever lean 
heaviest on the subordinate orders. It is the interest of the 
great, therefore, to diminish kingly power as much as possi- 
ble; because whatever they take from it is naturally restored 
to themselves; and all they have to do in a state is to under- 
mine the single tyrant, by which they resume their primeval 
authority. Now a state may be so constitutionally circum- 
stanced, its laws may be so disposed, and its men of opulence 
so minded, as all to conspire to carry on this business of under- 
mining monarchy. If the circumstances of the state be 
such, for instance, as to favor the accumulation of wealth, and 
make the opulent still more rich, this will increase their 
strength and their ambition. But an accumulation of wealth 
must necessarily be the consequence in a state, when more 
riches flow in from external commerce than arise from inter- 
nal industry: for external commerce can only be managed to 
advantage by the rich, and they have also at the same time all 
the emoluments arising from internal industry; so that the 
rich in such a state have two sources of wealth, whereas the 
poor have but one. Thus wealth, in all commercial states, is 


A PERSON DISCONTENTED WITH THE GOVERNMENT. 95 


found to accumulate, and such have hitherto in time become 
aristocratical. Besides this, the very laws of a country may 
contribute to the accumulation of wealth; as when those nat- 
ural ties that bind the rich and poor together are broken, and 
it is ordained that the rich shall only marry among each 
other; or when the learned are held unqualified to serve their 
country as counsellors, merely from a defect of opulence, and 
wealth is thus made the object of a wise man’s ambition; by 
these means, I say, and such means as these, riches will accu- 
mulate. The possessor of accumulated wealth, when fur- 
nished with the necessaries and pleasures of life, can employ 
the superfluity of fortune only in purchasing power. That 
is, differently speaking, in making dependents, in purchasing 
the liberty of the needy or the venal, of men who are willing 
to bear the mortification of contiguous tyranny for bread. 
Thus each very opulent man generally gathers round him a 
circle of the poorest of the people; and the polity abounding 
in accumulated wealth may be compared to a Cartesian sys- 
tem, each orb with a vortex of its own. Those, however, who 
are willing to move in a great man’s vortex, are only such as 
must be slaves, the rabble of mankind, whose souls and whose 
education are adapted to servitude, and who know nothing of 
liberty except the name. But there must still be a large 
number of the people without the sphere of the opulent man’s 
influence; namely, that order of men which subsists between 
the very rich and the very rabble; those men who are possessed 
of too large fortunes to submit to the neighboring man in 
power, and yet are too poor to set up for tyranny themselves. 
In this middle order of mankind are generally to be found all 
the arts, wisdom, and virtues of society. This order alone is 
known to be the true preserver of freedom, and may be called 
the People. Now it may happen that this middle order of 
mankind may lose all its influence in a state , 1 and its voice be 

i 111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 

Where wealth accumulates, and men decay —Deserted Village , 51, 52. 


96 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


in a manner drowned in that of the rabble: for if the fortune 
sufficient for qualifying a person at present to give his voice 
in state affairs be ten times less than was judged sufficient 
upon forming the constitution, it is evident that greater num- 
bers of the rabble will thus be introduced into the political 
system, and they, ever moving in the vortex of the great, will 
follow where greatness shall direct. In such a state, there- 
fore, all that the middle order has left, is to preserve the pre- 
rogative and privileges of the one principal tyrant with the 
most sacred circumspection. For he divides the power of the 
rich, and calls off the great from falling with tenfold weight 
on the middle order placed beneath them. The middle order 
may be compared to a town of which the opulent are form- 
ing the siege, and which the tyrant is hastening to relieve. 
While the besiegers are in dread of the external enemy, it is 
but natural to offer the townsmen the most specious terms; 
to flatter them with sounds, and amuse them with privileges; 
but if they once defeat the tyrant, the walls of the town will 
be but a small defence to its inhabitants. What they may 
then expect may be seen by turning our eyes to Holland, 
Genoa, or Venice , 1 where the laws govern the poor, and the 
rich govern the law. I am then for, and would die for mon- 
archy, sacred monarchy; for if there be anything sacred 
amongst men, it must be the anointed sovereign of his peo- 
ple; and every diminution of his power in war, or in peace, is 
an infringement upon the real liberties of the subject. The 
sounds of liberty, patriotism, and Britons, have already done 
much ; it is to be hoped that the true sons of freedom will 
prevent their ever doing more. I have known many of those 
bold champions for liberty in my time, yet do I not remember 
one that was not in his heart and in his family a tyrant.” 

My warmth I found had lengthened this harangue beyond 
the rules of good breeding; but the impatience of my enter- 

1 Goldsmith just about this time presented a number of these political views in his 
poem “ The Traveller.” 


A PERSON DISCONTENTED WITH THE GOVERNMENT. 97 


tainer, who often strove to interrupt it, could be restrained 
no longer. 

“ What,” cried he, “ then I have been all this while enter- 
taining a Jesuit in parson’s clothes! but by all the coal mines 
of Cornwall, out he shall pack, if my name be Wilkinson.” 
I now found I had gone too far, and asked pardon for the 
warmth with which I had spoken. — “ Pardon! ” returned he 
in a fury; “I think such principles demand ten thousand 
pardons. What ? give up liberty, property, and, as the 
4 Gazetteer ’ says, lie down to be saddled with wooden shoes ! 1 
Sir, I insist upon your marching out of this house immedi- 
ately, to prevent worse consequences: sir, I insist upon it.” 
I was going to repeat my remonstrances: but just then we 
heard a footman’s rap at the door, and the two ladies cried 
out, “ As sure as death, there is our master and mistress come 
home.” It seems my entertainer was all this while only the 
butler, who, in his master’s absence, had a mind to cut a 
figure, and be for a while the gentleman himself; and to say 
the truth, he talked politics as well as most country gentle- 
men do. But nothing could now exceed my confusion upon 
seeing the gentleman with his lady enter; nor was their sur- 
prise at finding such company and good cheer less than ours. 
— “ Gentlemen,” cried the real master of the house to me and 
my companion, “ I am your most humble servant; but I pro- 
test this is so unexpected a favor that I almost sink under 
the obligation.” — However unexpected our company might 
be to him, his, I am sure, was still more so to us, and I was 
struck dumb with the apprehensions of my own absurdity, 
when whom should I next see enter the room but my dear 
Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was formerly designed to be mar- 
ried to my son George, but whose match was broken off, as 
already related. As soon as she saw me, she flew to my arms 
with the utmost joy. — “My dear sir,” cried she, “to what 
happy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a visit ? I am 

1 the popular symbol for the Frenchman. 


7 


98 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


sure my uncle and aunt will be in raptures when they find 
they have the good Dr. Primrose for their guest. ” Upon 
hearing my name, the old gentleman and lady very politely 
stepped up, and welcomed me with most cordial hospitality. 
Nor could they forbear smiling, upon being informed of the 
nature of my present visit; but the unfortunate butler, whom 
they at first seemed disposed to turn away, was at my inter- 
cession forgiven. 

Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, now 
insisted upon having the pleasure of my stay for some days; 
and as their niece, my charming pupil, whose mind in some 
measure had been formed under my own instructions, joined 
in their entreaties, I complied. That night I was shown to 
a magnificent chamber, and the next morning early Miss 
Wilmot desired to walk with me in the garden, which was 
decorated in the modern manner. After some time spent in 
pointing out the beauties of the place, she inquired, with seem- 
ing unconcern, when last I had heard from my son George. 

“Alas! madam,” cried I, “he has now been nearly three 
years absent, without ever writing to his friends or me. 
Where he is, I know not; perhaps I shall never see him or 
happiness more. No, my dear madam, we shall never more 
see such pleasing hours as were once spent by our fireside at 
Wakefield. My little family are now dispersing very fast, 
and poverty has brought not only want, but disgrace, upon 
us.” The good-natured girl let fall a tear at this account; 
but as I saw her possessed of too much sensibility, I forbore a 
more minute detail of our sufferings. It was, however, some 
consolation to me, to find that time had made no alteration in 
her affections, and that she had rejected several matches that 
had been made her, since our leaving her part of the country. 
She led me round all the extensive improvements of the place, 
pointing to the several walks and arbors, and at the same time 
catching from every object a hint for some new question rela- 
tive to my son. In this manner we spent the forenoon, till 


A PERSON DISCONTENTED WITH THE GOVERNMENT. 99 

tlie bell summoned us in to dinner, where we found the man- 
ager of the strolling company, who was come to dispose of 
tickets for the “Fair Penitent /’ 1 which was to be acted that 
evening, the part of Horatio by a young gentleman who had 
never appeared on any stage before. He seemed to be very 
warm in the praises of the new performer, and averred that 
he never saw any who bid so fair for excellence. Acting, he 
observed, was not learned in a day; “ but this gentleman,” 
continued he, “ seems born to tread the stage. His voice, 
his figure, and attitudes are all admirable. We caught 
him up accidentally in our journey down.” This account in 
some measure excited our curiosity, and, at the entreaty of 
the ladies, I was prevailed upon to accompany them to the 
play-house, which was no other than a barn. As the com- 
pany with which ‘I went was incontestably the chief of the 
place, we were received with the greatest respect, and placed 
in the front seat of the theatre; where we sat for some time 
with no small impatience to see Horatio make his appearance. 
The new performer advanced at last; and I found it was my 
unfortunate son ! He was going to begin, when, turning his 
eyes upon the audience, he perceived us, and stood at once 
speechless and immovable. The actors behind the scene, who 
ascribed this pause to his natural timidity, attempted to 
encourage him; but instead of going on, he burst into a flood 
of tears, and retired otf the stage. I don’t know what were 
the sensations I felt, for they succeeded with too much rapid- 
ity for description; but I was soon awaked from this disagree- 
able reverie by Miss Wilmot, who, pale, and with a trembling 
voice, desired me to conduct her back' to her uncle’s. When 
we got home, Mr. Arnold, who was as yet a stranger to our 
extraordinary behavior, being informed that the new per- 
former was my son, sent his coach and an invitation for him; 
and as he persisted in his refusal to appear again upon the 
stage, the players put another in his place, and we soon had 

1 This play is by the same Rowe that had been pronounced unfashionable. 


100 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


him with us. Mr. Arnold gave him the kindest reception, 
and I received him with my usual transport; for I could 
never counterfeit false resentment. Miss Wilmot’s reception 
was mixed with seeming neglect, and yet I could perceive she 
acted a studied part. The tumult in her mind seemed not 
yet abated; she said twenty giddy things that looked like joy, 
and then laughed loud at her own want of meaning. At 
intervals she would take a sly peep at the glass, as if happy in 
the consciousness of irresistible beauty, and often would ask 
questions without giving any manner of attention to the 
answers. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND, PURSUING 
NOVELTY, BUT LOSING CONTENT . 1 

After we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely offered to send 
a couple of her footmen for my son’s baggage, which he at 
first seemed to decline; but upon her pressing the request, he 
was obliged to inform her that a stick. and a wallet were all 
the movable things upon this earth that he could boast of. 

“Why, ay, my son,” cried I, “you left me but poor, and 
poor I find you are come back; and yet I make no doubt you 
have seen a great deal of the world.” — “Yes, sir,” replied 
my son, “ but travelling after fortune is not the way to secure 
her; and, indeed, of late I have desisted from the pursuit.” — 
“ I fancy, sir,” cried Mrs. Arnold, “ that the account of your 
adventures would be amusing; the first part of them I have 
often heard from my niece; but could the company prevail for 
the rest, it would be an additional obligation.” — “ Madam,” 
replied my son, “ I can promise you the pleasure you have in 
hearing will not be half so great as my vanity in the recital; 

1 The story of Dr. Primrose’s son is an deal of interest in that it undoubtedly in- 
episode which has not much to do with the eludes a good many of the early adventures 
main plot of the novel, but it has a good of Goldsmith himself. 


THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND. 101 


and yet in the whole narrative I can scarce promise yon one 
adventure, as my account is not of what I did, but what I 
saw. The first misfortune of my life, which you all know, 
was great; but though it distressed, it could not sink me. No 
person ever had a better knack at hoping than I. The less 
kind I found Fortune then, the more I expected from her 
another time, and being now at the bottom of her wheel, 
every new revolution might lift, but could not depress me. I 
proceeded, therefore, towards London 1 in a fine morning, no 
way uneasy about to-morrow, but cheerful as the birds that 
carolled by the road. I comforted myself with various reflec- 
tions, that London was the true mart where abilities of every 
kind were sure of meeting distinction and reward. 

“ Upon my arrival in town, sir, my first care was to deliver 
your letter of recommendation to our cousin, who was him- 
self in little better circumstances than I. My first scheme, 
you know, sir, was to be usher 2 at an academy, and I asked 
his advice on the affair. Our cousin received the proposal 
with a true sardonic grin . — “ ‘ Ay,’ cried he, ‘this is a 
pretty career, indeed, that has been chalked out for you. I 
have been once an usher at a boarding-school myself; and 
may I die by an anodyne necklace , 3 but I had rather be an 
under-turnkey in Newgate . 4 I was up early and late; I was 
browbeat by the master, hated for my ugly face by the mis- 
tress, worried by the boys within, and never permitted to stir 
out to meet civility abroad. But are you sure you are fit for 
a school ? Let me examine you a little. Have you been bred 
an apprentice to the business ? No. Then you won’t do for 
a school. Can you dress the boys’ hair ? No. Then you 
won’t do for a school. Have you had the small-pox? No. 
Then you won’t do for a school. Can you lie three in a bed ? 
No. Then you will never do for a school. Have you got a 


1 See p. 10. 3 i.e., by hanging. 

2 under-teacher : Goldsmith himself had 4 the great prison for criminals, 

been one. 


102 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


good stomach? Yes. Then you will by no means do for 
a school. No, sir, if you are for a genteel easy profession, 
bind yourself seven years as an apprentice to turn a cutler’s 
wheel;, but avoid a school by any means. But come,’ con- 
tinued he, ‘I see you are a lad of spirit and some learning, 
what do you think of commencing 1 author, like me ? You 
have read in books, no doubt, of men of genius starving at 
the trade; but at present I’ll show you forty very dull fellows 
about town that live by it in opulence; all honest, jog-trot 
men, who go on smoothly and dully, and write history and 
politics, and are praised: and who, had they been bred cob- 
blers, would all their lives have only mended shoes, but never 
made them.’ 

“ Finding that there was no great degree of gentility affixed 
to the character of an usher, I resolved to accept his proposal; 
and having the highest respect for literature, hailed the an- 
tiqua mater 2 of Grub-street 3 with reverence. I thought it 
my glory to pursue a track which Dryden and Otway trod 
before me. In fact, I considered the goddess of this region 
as the parent of excellence; and however an intercourse with 
the world might give us good sense, the poverty she granted 
was the nurse of genius! Big with these reflections, I sat 
down, and finding that the best things remained to be said on 
the wrong side, I resolved to write a book that should be 
wholly new. I therefore dressed up three paradoxes with some 
ingenuity. They were false, indeed, but they were new. The 
jewels of truth have been so often imported by others, that 
nothing was left for me to import but some splendid things 
that at a distance looked every bit as well. Witness, you 
powers, what fancied importance sat perched upon my quill 
while I was writing! The whole learned world, I made no 
doubt, would rise to oppose my systems; but then I was pre- 


1 an expression borrowed from that which 3 a street in London, once the dwelling- 

gives us Commencement Day. place of poor authors; the word now stands 

2 ancient mother. for the world of hack-writers. 


THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND, 103 


pared to oppose the whole learned world. Like the porcu- 
pine, I sat self-collected, with a quill pointed against every 
opposer.” 

“Well said, my boy,” cried I, “and what subject did you 
treat upon? I hope you did not pass over the importance of 
monogamy. But I interrupt; go on: you published your 
paradoxes; well, and what did the learned world say to your 
paradoxes? ” 

“ Sir,” replied my son, “the learned world said nothing to 
my paradoxes; nothing at all, sir. Every man of them was 
employed in praising his friends and himself, or condemning 
his enemies; and unfortunately, as I had neither, I suffered 
the cruellest mortification— neglect. 

“ As I was meditating one day in a coffee-house on the fate 
of my paradoxes, a little man happening to enter the room, 
placed himself in the box before me, and after some prelimi- 
nary discourse, finding me to be a scholar, drew out a bundle 
of proposals, begging me to subscribe to a new edition he was 
going to give to the world of Propertius 1 with notes. This 
demand necessarily produced a reply that I had no money;, 
and that concession led him on to inquire into the nature of 
my expectations. Finding that my expectations were just as 
great as my purse, ‘I see,’ cried he, ‘you are unacquainted 
with the town; I’ll teach you a part of it. Look at these pro- 
posals — upon these very proposals I have subsisted very com- 
fortably for twelve years. The moment a nobleman returns 
from his travels, a Creolian 2 arrives from Jamaica, or a 
dowager from her country-seat, I strike for a subscription. I 
first besiege their hearts with flattery, and then pour in my 
proposals at the breach. If they subscribe readily the first 
time, I renew my request to beg a dedication fee . 3 If they let 
me have that, I smite them once more for engraving their 

1 a Roman poet, 50-15, b.c.: publishing 2 The word has given place to Creole, 

by advance subscription was a method 3 It was customary to offer an honorarium 

much followed in the days of which Gold- in money as acknowledgment of a book dedi- 
smith writes. cated to one. 


104 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


coat of arms at the top. Thus,’ continued he, ‘ I live by vanity 
and laugh at it. But between ourselves, I am now too well 
known: I should be glad to borrow your face a bit; a noble- 
man of distinction has just returned from Italy; my face is 
familiar to his porter; but if you bring this copy of verses, 
my life for it you succeed, and we divide the spoil.’ ” 

“Bless us, George,” cried I, “and is this the employment 
of poets now ? Do men of their exalted talents thus stoop to 
beggary ? Can they so far disgrace their calling as to make 
a vile traffic of praise for bread ? ” 

“Oh, no, sir,” returned he, “a true poet can never be so 
base; for wherever there is genius, there is pride. The crea- 
tures I now describe are only beggars in rhyme. The real 
poet, as he braves every hardship for fame, so he is equally a 
coward to contempt; and none but those who are unworthy 
protection, condescend to solicit it. 

“ Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, 
and yet a fortune too humble to hazard a second attempt for 
fame, I was now obliged to take a middle course, and write 
for bread. But I was unqualified for a profession where mere 
industry alone could ensure success. I could not suppress my 
lurking passion for applause; but usually consumed that time 
in efforts after excellence which takes up but little room, 
when it should have been more advantageously employed in 
the diffusive productions of fruitful mediocrity. My little 
piece would come forth in the midst of periodical publications 
unnoticed and unknown. The public were more importantly 
employed than to observe the easy simplicity of my style, or 
the harmony of my periods. Sheet after sheet was thrown off 
to oblivion. My essays were buried among the essays upon 
liberty, eastern tales, and cures for the bite of a mad dog; 
while Philautos, Philalethes, Philelutheros, and Philan- 
thropes 1 all wrote better, because they wrote faster than I. 

1 signatures after the fashion of the day : Goldsmith mentions these same names in 
the Preface to his own Essays. 


THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND. 105 


“ Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but dis- 
appointed authors, like myself, who praised, deplored, and 
despised each other. The satisfaction we found in every cele- 
brated writer’s attempts was inversely as their merits. I 
found that no genius in another could please me. My unfor- 
tunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of com- 
fort. I could neither read nor write with satisfaction; for ex- 
cellence in another was my aversion, and writing was my trade. 

“ In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was one day 
sitting on a bench in St. James’s Park, a young gentleman of 
distinction, who had been my intimate acquaintance at the 
university, approached me. We saluted each other with some 
hesitation; he almost ashamed of being known to one who 
made so shabby an appearance, and I afraid of a repulse. 
But my suspicions soon vanished; for Ned Thornhill was at 
the bottom a very good-natured fellow.” 

“ What did you say, George! ” interrupted I, “ Thornhill, 
was not that his name ? It can certainly be no other than my 
landlord.” — “Bless me,” cried Mrs. Arnold, “is Mr. Thorn- 
hill so near a neighbor of yours? He has long been a friend 
to our family, and we expect a visit from him shortly.” 

“ My friend’s first care,” continued my son, “was to alter 
my appearance by a very fine suit of his own clothes, and then 
I was admitted to his table , 1 upon the footing of half friend, 
half underling. My business was to attend him at auctions, 
to put him in spirits when he sat for his picture, to take the 
left hand in his chariot when not filled by another, and to 
assist at tattering a kip, as the phrase was, when he had a 
mind for a frolic. Besides this, I had twenty other little 
employments in the family. I was to do many small things 
without bidding; to carry the corkscrew; to stand godfather 
to all the butler’s children; to sing when I was bid; to be 
never out of humor; always to be humble, and if I could, to 
be happy. 


1 apparently as a “feeder.” 


106 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


“ In this honorable post, however, I was not without a rival. 
A captain of marines, who seemed formed for the place by 
nature, opposed me in my patron’s affections. His mother 
had been laundress to a man of quality, and thus he early 
acquired a taste for flattering and pedigree. As this gentle- 
man made it the study of his life to be acquainted with lords, 
though he was dismissed from several for his stupidity, yet he 
found many of them who permitted his assiduities, being as 
dull as himself. As flattery was his trade, he practised it 
with the easiest address imaginable; but it came awkward and 
stiff from me, and as every day my patron’s desire of flattery 
increased, so every hour, being better acquainted with his 
defects, I became more unwilling to give it. Thus I was once 
more fairly going to give up the field to the captain, when my 
friend found occasion for my assistance. This was nothing 
less than to fight a duel for him, with a gentleman whose 
sister it was pretended he had used ill. I readily complied 
with his request, and though I see you are displeased at my 
conduct, yet, as it was a debt indispensably due to friendship, 
I could not refuse. I undertook the affair, and disarmed my 
antagonist. This piece of service was repaid with the warmest 
professions of gratitude; but as my friend was to leave town 
in a few days, he knew no other method of serving me but 
by recommending me to his uncle. Sir William Thornhill, and 
another nobleman of great distinction who enjoyed a post 
under the government. When he was gone, my first care was 
to carry his recommendatory letter to his uncle, a man whose 
character for every virtue was universal, yet just. I was 
received by his servants with the most hospitable smiles; for 
the looks of the domestic ever transmit their master’s benev- 
olence. Being shown into a grand apartment, where Sir 
William soon came to me, I delivered my message, and letter, 
which he read, and after pausing some minutes, ‘Pray, sir,’ 
cried he, ‘ inform me what you have done for my kinsman to 
deserve this warm recommendation? But I suppose, sir, I 


THE HISTOEY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND. 107 


guess at your merits; you have fought for him, and so you 
would expect a reward from me for being the instrument of 
his vices. I wish, sincerely wish, that my present refusal 
may be some punishment for your guilt; but still more, that 
it may be some inducement to your repentance/ The severity 
of this rebuke I bore patiently, because I knew it was just. 
My whole expectations now, therefore, lay in my letter to the 
great man. As the doors of the nobility are almost ever beset 
with beggars, all ready to thrust in some sly petition, I found 
it no easy matter to gain admittance. However, after bribing 
the servants with half my worldly fortune, I was at last shown 
into a spacious apartment, my letter being previously sent up 
for his lordship’s inspection. During this anxious interval 
I had full time to look round me. Everything was grand and 
of happy 1 contrivance; the paintings, the furniture, the gild- 
ings, petrified me with awe, and raised my idea of the owner. 
Ah, thought I to myself, how very great must the possessor 
of all these things be, who carries in his head the business of 
the state, and whose house displays half the wealth of a king- 
dom; sure his genius must be unfathomable! During these 
awful reflections, I heard a step come heavily forward. Ah, 
this is the great man himself! Ho, it was only a chamber- 
maid. Another foot was heard soon after. This must be he ! 
Ho, it was only the great man’s valet- de-chambre. At last 
his lordship actually made his appearance. ‘Are you,’ cried 
he, ‘ the bearer of this here letter ? ’ I answered with a how. 
‘ I learn by this,’ continued he, ‘as how that — ’ But just at 
that instant a servant delivered him a card, and without tak- 
ing farther notice, he went out of the room, and left me to 
digest my own happiness at leisure; I saw no more of him, 
till told by a footman that his lordship was going to his coach 
at the door. Down I immediately followed, and joined my 
voice to that of three or four more, who came, like me, to 
petition for favors. His lordship, however, went too fast for 

1 clever. 


108 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


us, and was gaining his chariot door with large strides, when 
I hallooed out to know if I was to have any reply. He was 
by this time got in, and muttered an answer, half of which 
only I heard, the other half was lost in the rattling of his 
chariot wheels. I stood for some time with my neck stretched 
out, in the posture of one that was listening to catch the glori- 
ous sounds, till, looking round me, I found myself alone at his 
lordship’s gate. 

“My patience,” continued my son, “was now quite ex- 
hausted; stung with the thousand indignities I had met with, 
I was willing to cast myself away, and only wanted the gulf 
to receive me. I regarded myself as one of those vile things 
that nature designed should be thrown by into her lumber- 
room, there to perish in unpitied obscurity. I had still, how- 
ever, half a guinea left, and of that I thought fortune herself 
should not deprive me; but in order to be sure of this, I was 
resolved to go instantly and spend it, while I had it, and 
then trust to occurrences for the rest. As I was going along 
with this resolution, it happened that Mr. Orispe’s office 
seemed invitingly open to give me a welcome reception. In 
this office, Mr. Orispe kindly offers all his Majesty’s subjects 
a generous promise of £30 a year, for which promise ail they 
give in return is their liberty for life, and permission to let 
him transport them to America as slaves. 1 I was happy at 
finding a place where I could lose my fears in desperation, 
and therefore entered this cell, for it had the appearance of 
one, being dark, damp, and dirty. Here I found a number 
of poor creatures, all in circumstances like myself, expecting 
the arrival of Mr. Crispe, presenting a true epitome of Eng- 
lish impatience. Each untractable soul at variance with for- 
tune wreaked her injuries on their own hearts: but Mr. 
Crispe at last came down, and all our murmurs were hushed. 
He deigned to regard me with an air of peculiar approbation, 
and, indeed, he was the first man who for a month past talked 

1 more correctly, as servants for a certain period of years. 


THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND. 109 


to me with smiles. After a few questions, he found I was fit 
for everything in the world. He paused awhile upon the 
properest means of providing for me, and slapping his fore- 
head as if he had found it, assured me that there was at that 
time an embassy talked of from the Synod of Pennsylvania to 
the Chickasaw Indians , 1 and that he would use his interest to 
get me made secretary. I knew in my own heart that the 
fellow lied, and yet his promise gave me pleasure, there was 
something so magnificent in the sound. I fairly, therefore, 
divided my half-guinea, one half of which went to be added 
to his thirty thousand pounds, and with the other half I 
resolved to go to the next tavern, to be there more happy 
than he. 

“ As I was going out with that resolution, I was met at the 
door by the captain of a ship with whom I had formerly some 
little acquaintance, and he agreed to be my companion over 
a bowl of punch. As I never chose to make a secret of my 
circumstances, he assured me that I was upon the very point 
of ruin in listening to the office-keeper’s promises; for that 
he only designed to sell me to the plantations. 4 But,’ con- 
tinued he, ‘ I fancy you might, by a much shorter voyage, be 
very easily put into a genteel way of bread. Take my advice. 
My ship sails to-morrow for Amsterdam. What if you go in 
her as a passenger ? The moment you land, all you have to 
do is to teach the Dutchmen English, and I’ll warrant you’ll 
get pupils and money enough. I suppose you understand 
English,’ added he, 4 by this time, or the deuce is in it.’ I 
confidently assured him of that: but expressed a doubt 
whether the Dutch would be willing to learn English. He 
affirmed with an oath that they were fond of it to distraction; 
and upon that affirmation I agreed with his proposal, and em- 
barked the next day to teach the Dutch English in Holland. 
The wind was fair, our voyage short, and after having paid 

1 Goldsmith did not trouble to be very any Synod of Pennsylvania, nor did the 
accurate in such matters. There never was Chickasaw Indians live near that State. 


110 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


my passage with half my movables, I found myself, fallen as 
if from the skies, a stranger in one of the principal streets of 
Amsterdam. In this situation I was unwilling to let any time 
pass unemployed in teaching. I addressed myself therefore 
to two or three of those I met, whose appearance seemed most 
promising; but it was impossible to make ourselves mutually 
understood. It was not till this very moment I recollected, 
that in order to teach the Dutchmen English, it was necessary 
that they should first teach me Dutch. How I came to over- 
look so obvious an objection is to me amazing; but certain it 
is, I overlooked it. 

“ This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts of fairly 
shipping back to England again: but happening into com- 
pany with an Irish student who was returning from Louvain , 1 
our conversation turning upon topics of literature (for by the 
way it may be observed that I always forgot the meanness of 
my circumstances when I could converse upon such subjects), 
from him I learned that there were not two men in his whole 
university who understood Greek. This amazed me. I in- 
stantly resolved to travel to Louvain, and there live by teach- 
ing Greek; and in this design I was heartened by my brother 
student, who threw out some hints that a fortune might be 
got by it. 

“I set boldly forward the next morning. Every day les- 
sened the burden of my movables, like iEsop and his basket of 
bread ; 2 for I paid them for my lodgings to the Dutch as I 
travelled on. When I came to Louvain, I was resolved not 
to go sneaking to the lower professors, but openly tendered 
my talents to the principal himself. I went, had admittance, 
and offered him my service as a master of the Greek language, 
which I had been told was a desideratum in his university. 
The principal seemed at first to doubt of my abilities; but of 
these I offered to convince him by turning a part of any Greek 

1 a university town in Belgium, where 2 iEsop chose a large basket of provisions 

Goldsmith himself had studied medicine. as his share of the baggage. 


THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND. Ill 


author he should fix upon into Latin. Finding me perfectly 
earnest in my proposal, he addressed me thus: 4 You see me, 
young man: I never learned Greek, and I don’t find that I 
ever missed it. I have had a doctor’s cap and gown without 
Greek; I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek; and 
I eat heartily without Greek; in short,’ continued he, 4 as I 
don’t know Greek, I do not believe there is any use in it.’ 

44 1 was now too far from home to think of returning; so 
I resolved to go forward. I had some knowledge of music, 
with a tolerable voice, and now turned what was once my 
amusement into a present means of hare subsistence. I passed 
among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among such of 
the French as were poor enough to he very merry; for I ever 
found them sprightly in proportion to their wants. When- 
ever I approached a peasant’s house towards nightfall, I played 
one of my most merry tunes, and that procured me not only 
a lodging, hut subsistence for the next day. 1 I once or twice 
attempted to play for people of fashion; but they still thought 
my performance odious, and never rewarded me even with a 
trifle. This was to me the more extraordinary, as whenever 
I used formerly to play for company, when playing was my 
amusement, my music never failed to throw them into rap- 
tures, and the ladies especially; hut as it was now my only 
means, it was received with contempt : a proof how ready the 
world is to underrate those talents which a man lives by. 

44 In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no design hut 
just to look about me, and then to go forward. The people 
of Paris are much fonder of strangers that have money than 
of those that have wit. You may imagine, then, as I could 
not boast much of either, that I was no great favorite. After 
I had walked about the town four or five days, and seen the 
outsides of the best houses, I was preparing to leave this 

1 Goldsmith here has some thought of his “ How often have I led thy sportive choir 
own adventures abroad, of which he gives a With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring 

reminiscence in “The Traveller,” 11. 243-4: Loire.” 


112 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


retreat of venal hospitality, when, passing through one of the 
principal streets, whom should I meet but our cousin, to 
whom you first recommended me. This meeting was very 
agreeable to me, and I believe not displeasing to him. He 
inquired into the nature of my journey to Paris, and informed 
me of his own business there, which was to collect pictures, 
medals, intaglios, and antiques of all kinds for a gentleman 
in London, who had just stepped into taste and a large fortune. 
I was still more surprised at seeing our cousin pitched upon 
for this office, as himself had often assured me he knew noth- 
ing of the matter. Upon my asking how he had been taught 
the art of a cognoscento 1 so very suddenly, he assured me 
that nothing was more easy. The whole secret consisted in 
a strict adherence to two rules: the one, always to observe the 
picture might have been better if the painter had taken more 
pains; and the other, to praise the works of Pietro Perugino . 2 
4 But/ says he, ‘ as I once taught you how to be an author in 
London, I’ll now undertake to instruct you in the art of 
picture-buying at Paris.’ 

“With this proposal I very readily closed, as it was living, 
and now all my ambition was to live. I went therefore to his 
lodgings, improved my dress by his assistance, and after some 
time accompanied him to auctions of pictures, where the Eng- 
lish gentry were expected to be purchasers. I was not a little 
surprised at his intimacy with people of the best fashion, who 
referred themselves to his judgment upon every picture or 
medal, as to an unerring standard of taste. He made very 
good use of my assistance upon these occasions; for when 
asked his opinion, he would gravely take me aside and ask 
mine, shrug, look wise, return, and assure the company that 
he could give no opinion upon an affair of so much impor- 
tance. Yet there was sometimes an occasion for a more sup- 


1 an Italian word meaning “one who 2 Perugino was an Italian painter (1446- 

knows,” i.e., about matters of art : it has 1524), who painted really very charming 
now gone out of use, pictures. 


THE HISTOKY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND. 113 


ported assurance. I remember to have seen him, after giving 
his opinion that the coloring of a picture was not mellow 
enough, very deliberately take a brush with brown varnish, 
that was accidentally lying in the place, arid rub it over the 
piece with great composure before all the company, and then 
ask if he had not improved the tints. 

“ When he had finished his commission in Paris, he left me 
strongly recommended to several men of distinction as a per- 
son very proper for a travelling tutor ; 1 and I was after some 
time employed in that capacity by a gentleman who brought 
his ward to Paris, in order to set him forward on his tour 
through Europe. I was to be the young gentleman’s gov- 
ernor, with this injunction, that he should always be per- 
mitted to direct himself. My pupil, in fact, understood the 
art of guiding in money concerns much better than I. He 
was heir to a fortune of about two hundred thousand pounds, 
left him by an uncle in the West Indies; and his guardians, 
to qualify him for the management of it, had bound him an 
apprentice to an attorney. Thus avarice was his prevailing 
passion: all his questions on the road were, how money might 
be saved; which was the least expensive course of travel; 
whether anything could be bought that would turn to account 
when disposed of again in London? Such curiosities on the 
way as could be seen for nothing, he was ready enough to look 
at; but if the sight was to be paid for, he usually asserted 
that he had been told it was not worth seeing. He never 
paid a bill that he would not observe how amazingly expensive 
travelling was, and all this though he was not yet come to the 
age of twenty-one. When arrived at Leghorn, as we took a 
walk to look at the port and shipping, he inquired the expense 
of the passage by sea home to England. This he was in- 
formed was but a trifle compared to his returning by land; 
he was therefore unable to withstand the temptation ; so 
paying me the small part of my salary that was then due, 

1 Many men of education in Goldsmith’s day served in this capacity. 

8 


114 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


he took leave and embarked, with only one attendant, for 
London. 

“I now therefore was left once more upon the world at 
large; but then it was a thing I was used to. However, my 
skill in music could avail me nothing in a country where every 
peasant was a better musician than I; but by this time I had. 
acquired another talent which answered my purpose as well, 
and this was a skill in disputation. In all the foreign univer- 
sities and convents there are, upon certain days, philosophical 
theses maintained against every adventitious disputant; for 
which, if the champion opposes with any dexterity, he can 
claim a gratuity in money, a dinner, and a bed for one night. 
In this manner, therefore, I fought my way towards England, 
walked along from city to city, examined mankind more 
nearly, and, if I may so express it, saw both sides of the pic- 
ture. My remarks, however,* were few: I found that mon- 
archy was the best government for the poor to live in, and 
commonwealths for the rich . 1 I found that riches in general 
were in every country another name for freedom; and that no 
man is so fond of freedom himself that he would not choose 
to subject the will of some individuals of society to his own. 

“ Upon my arrival in England I resolved to pay my respects 
first to you, and then to enlist as a volunteer in the first expe- 
dition that was going forward; but on my journey down my 
resolutions were changed, by meeting an old acquaintance, 
who I found belonged to a company of comedians that were 
going to make a summer campaign in the country. The com- 
pany seemed not much to disapprove of me for an associate. 
They all, however, apprised me of the importance of the task 
at which I aimed; that the public was a many-headed mon- 
ster, and that only such as had very good heads could please 
it; that acting was not to be learned in a day, and that with- 
out some traditional shrugs, which had been on the stage, and 
only on the stage, these hundred years, I could never pretend 

1 Cf. Dr. Primrose’s own views, p. 96. 


SHORT FRIENDSHIP AMONGST THE VICIOUS. 115 


to please. The next difficulty was in fitting me with parts, 
as almost every character was in keeping . 1 I was driven for 
some time from one character to another, till at last Horatio 
was fixed upon, which the presence of the present company 
has happily hindered me from acting.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP AMONGST THE 
VICIOUS, WHICH IS COEVAL ONLY WITH MUTUAL SATIS- 
FACTION. 

My son’s account was too long to be delivered at once; the 
first part of it was begun that night, and he was concluding 
the rest after dinner the next day, when the appearance of 
Mr. Thornhill’s equipage at the door seemed to make a pause 
in the general satisfaction. The butler, who was now become 
my friend in the family, informed me with a whisper that 
the Squire had already made some overtures to Miss Wilmot, 
and that her aunt and uncle seemed highly to approve the 
match. Upon Mr. Thornhill’s entering, he seemed, at seeing 
my son and me, to start back; but I readily imputed that to 
surprise, and not displeasure. However, upon our advancing 
to salute him, he returned our greeting with the most appar- 
ent candor ; and after a short time his presence seemed only 
to increase the general good humor. 

After tea he called me aside to inquire after my daughter; 
but upon my informing him that my inquiry was unsuccess- 
ful, he seemed greatly surprised; adding that he had been 
since frequently at my house in order to comfort the rest of 
my family, whom he left perfectly well. He then asked if 
I had communicated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot or my 
son; and upon my replying that I had not told them as yet, 
he greatly approved my prudence and precaution, desiring me 

1 belonged to someone else. 


116 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


by all means to keep it a secret. “For at best,” cried he, 
“it is but divulging one’s own disgrace; and perhaps Miss 
Livy may not be so in fault as we all imagine.” We were 
interrupted by a servant who came to ask the Squire in, to 
stand up at country dances: so that he left me quite pleased 
with the interest he seemed to take in my concerns. His 
addresses, however, to Miss Wilmot, were too obvious to be 
mistaken: and yet she seemed not perfectly pleased, but bore 
them rather in compliance to the will of her aunt than from 
real inclination. I had even the satisfaction to see her lavish 
some kind looks upon my unfortunate son, which the other 
could neither extort by his fortune nor assiduity. Mr. Thorn- 
hill’s seeming composure, however, not a little surprised me: 
we had now continued here a week at the pressing instances 
of Mr. Arnold; but each day the more tenderness Miss Wil- 
mot showed my son, Mr. Thornhill’s friendship seemed pro- 
portionably to increase for him. 

He had formerly made us the most kind assurances of using 
his interest 1 2 to serve the family; but now his generosity was 
not confined to promises alone. The morning I designed for 
my departure, Mr. Thornhill came to me with looks of real 
pleasure, to inform me of a piece of service he had done for 
his friend George. This was nothing less than his having 
procured him an ensign’s 3 commission in one of the regi- 
ments that was going to the West Indies, for which he had 
promised but one hundred pounds, 3 his interest having been 
sufficient to get an abatement of the other two. “As for 
this trifling piece of service,” continued the young gentle- 
man, “I desire no other reward but the pleasure of having 
served my friend; and as for the hundred pounds to be paid, 
if you are unable to raise it yourselves, I will advance it, and 
you shall repay me at your leisure.” This was a favor we 

1 his influence. 3 At this time, and until recently, one 

2 an officer in the foot regiments who had to purchase commissions in the Eng- 

carried the flag. lish army. 


SHORT FRIENDSHIP AMONGST THE VICIOUS. 117 


wanted words to express our sense of: I readily therefore gave 
my bond for the money, and testified as much gratitude as if 
I never intended to pay. 

George was to depart for town the next day to secure his 
commission, in pursuance of his generous patron’s directions, 
who judged it highly expedient to use despatch, lest in the 
mean time another should step in with more advantageous 
proposals. The next morning, therefore, our young soldier 
was early prepared for his departure, and seemed the only 
person among us that was not affected by it. Neither the 
fatigues and dangers he was going to encounter, nor the 
friends and mistress — for Miss Wilmot actually loved him— 
he was leaving behind, any way damped his spirits. After 
he had taken leave of the rest of the company, I gave him all 
I had, my blessing. — “And now, my boy,” cried I, “thou 
art going to fight for thy country, remember how thy brave 
grandfather fought for his sacred King, when loyalty among 
Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, and imitate him in all but 
his misfortunes, if it was a misfortune to die with Lord Falk- 
land . 1 Go, my boy, and if you fall, though distant, exposed, 
and unwept by those that love you, the most precious tears 
are those with which heaven bedews the unburied head of a 
soldier.” 

The next morning I took leave of the good family that had 
been kind enough to entertain me so long, not without sev- 
eral expressions of gratitude to Mr. Thornhill for i[is late 
bounty. I left them in the enjoyment of all that happiness 
which affluence and good-breeding procure, and returned 
towards home, despairing of ever finding my daughter more, 
but sending a sigh to Heaven to spare and forgive her. I was 
now come within about twenty miles of home, having hired 
a horse to carry me, as I was yet but weak, and comforted 
myself with the hopes of soon seeing all I held dearest upon 
earth. But the night coming on, I put up at a little public- 

1 Lord Falkland fell at the battle of Newbury, in the civil wars. 


118 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


house by the roadside, and asked for the landlord’s company 
over a pint of wine. We sat beside his kitchen fire, which 
was the best room in the house, and chatted on politics and 
the news of the country. We happened, among other topics, 
to talk of young Squire Thornhill, who, the host assured me, 
was hated as much as an uncle of his, who sometimes came 
down to the country, was loved. As we continued our dis- 
course in this manner, his wife, who had been out to get 
change, returned, and perceiving that her husband was enjoy- 
ing a pleasure in which she was not a sharer, she asked him in 
an angry tone, what he did there? to which he only replied 
in an ironical way by drinking her health. 

“Mr. Symmonds,” cried she, “you use me very ill, and 
I’ll bear it no longer. Here three parts of the business is left 
for me to do, and the fourth left unfinished, while you do 
nothing but soak with the guests all day long; whereas, if a 
spoonful of liquor were to cure me of a fever, I never touch 
a drop.” I now found what she would be at, and immedi- 
ately poured her out a glass, which she received with a cour- 
tesy, and drinking towards my good health. “ Sir,” resumed 
she, “ it is not so much for the value of the liquor I am angry, 
but one cannot help it when the house is going out of the 
windows. If the customers or guests are to be dunned, all 
the burden lies upon my back: he’d as lief eat that glass as 
budge after them himself. There, now, above stairs, we have 
a young woman who has come to take up her lodgings here, 
and I don’t believe she has got any money, by her over civil- 
ity. I am certain she is very slow of payment, and I wish she 
were put in mind of it.” — “What signifies minding her?” 
cried the host, “ if she be slow, she is sure.” — “ I don’t know 
that,” replied the wife; “ but I know that I am sure she has 
been here a fortnight, and we have not yet seen the cross 1 of 
her money.” — “I suppose, my dear,” cried he, “we shall 
have it all in a lump.” — “ In a lump! ” cried the other. “ I 

1 English silver coins very commonly had a cross on one side. 


m 

SHORT FRIENDSHIP AMONGST THE VICIOUS. 119 

hope we may get it any way; and that I am resolved we shall, 
this very night, or out she tramps, bag and baggage.” — “ Con- 
sider, my dear,” cried the husband, 4 she is a gentlewoman 
and deserves more respect.” — “As for the matter of that,” 
returned the hostess, “gentle or simple, out she shall pack 
with a sussarara . 1 Gentry may be good things where they 
take; but for my part, I never saw much good of them at the 
sign of the Harrow .” 2 Thus saying, she ran up a narrow 
flight of stairs that went from the kitchen to a room over- 
head; and I soon perceived, by the loudness of her voice, and 
the bitterness of her reproaches, that no money was to be had 
from her lodger. I could hear her remonstrances very dis- 
tinctly: “Out, I say; pack out this moment! tramp, or I’ll 
give thee a mark thou won’t be the better for this three 
months. What, you trumpery, to come and take up an hon- 
est house without cross or coin to bless yourself with; come 
along, I say.” — “ Oh, dear madam,” cried the stranger, “ pity 
me, pity a poor abandoned creature for one night, and death 
will soon do the rest.” I instantly knew the voice of my poor 
child Olivia. I flew to her rescue, while the woman was drag- 
ging her along by the hair, and I caught the dear forlorn 
wretch in my arms. — “ Welcome, any way welcome, my dear- 
est lost one, my treasure, to your poor old father’s bosom! 
Though the vicious forsake thee, there is yet one in the world 
that will never forsake thee: though thou hadst ten thousand 
crimes to answer for, he will forget them all.” — “ Oh, my 
own dear ” — for minutes she could no more — “ my own dear- 
est good papa! Could angels be kinder! How do I deserve 
so much! The villain, I hate him and myself, to be a re- 
proach to such goodness. You can’t forgive me, I know you 
cannot ” — “ Yes, my child, from my heart I do forgive thee! 

i The word is thought to be a corruption a The custom of displaying emblems on 

of certiorari , the name of a legal writ, the signs of inns and shops has now almost 
This is not improbable, although the writ disappeared." It was, however, general, 
in question has nothing to do with expelling especially in the case of the former, 
a person. 


120 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


Only repent, and we both shall yet he happy. We shall see 
many pleasant days yet, my Olivia!” — “Ah! never, sir, 
never. But, alas! papa, you look much paler than you used 
to do. Could such a thing as I am give you so much uneasi- 
ness ? Sure you have too much wisdom to take the miseries 
of my fault upon yourself.” — “ Our wisdom, young woman,” 
replied I. — “Ah, why so cold a name, papa?” cried she. 
“ This is the first time you ever called me by so cold a 
name.” — “I ask pardon, my darling,” returned I: “but 
I was going to observe, that wisdom makes but a slow defence 
against trouble, though at last a sure one.” 

The landlady now returned to know if we did not choose a 
more genteel apartment; to which assenting, we were shown 
a room where we could converse more freely. After we had 
talked ourselves into some degree of tranquillity, I could not 
avoid desiring some account of the gradations that led her to 
her present situation. “It surprises me,” I said, “how a 
person of Mr. Burchell’s good sense and seeming honor could 
be guilty of such baseness.” 

“ My dear papa,” returned my daughter, “ you labor under 
a strange mistake. Mr. Burchell never attempted to deceive 
me; instead of that he took every opportunity of privately 
admonishing me against the artifices of Mr. Thornhill, who 
now I find was even worse than he represented him.” — “ Mr. 
Thornhill,” interrupted I; “can it be?” — “Yes, sir,” re- 
turned she; “it was Mr. Thornhill; he employed the two 
ladies, as he called them, to decoy us up to London. Their 
artifices, you may remember, would have certainly succeeded, 
but for Mr. BurchelFs letter, who directed those reproaches 
at them, which we all applied to ourselves. How he came to 
have so much influence as to defeat their intentions, still 
remains a secret to me; but I am convinced he was ever our 
warmest, sincerest friend.” 

“You amaze me/my dear,” cried I; “but now I find my 
first suspicions of Mr. Thornhill’s baseness were too well 


SHORT FRIENDSHIP AMONGST THE VICIOUS. 


121 


grounded: but be can triumph in security, for he is rich, and 
we are poor. But tell me, my child, sure it was no small 
temptation that could thus obliterate all the impressions of 
such an education, and so virtuous a disposition as thine ? ” 

“ Indeed, sir,” replied she, “he owes all his triumph to 
the desire I had of making him, and not myself, happy. I 
knew that the ceremony of our marriage, which was privately 
performed by a priest, was no way binding, and that I 
had nothing to trust to but his honor.” — “What!” inter- 
rupted I, “and were you indeed married by a priest, and in 
orders?” — “Indeed, sir, we were,” replied she, “though we 
were sworn to conceal his name.” — “Why, then, my child, 
come to my arms again; and now you are a thousand times 
more welcome than before; for you are now his wife to all 
intents and purposes: nor can all the laws of man, though 
written upon tables of adamant, lessen the force of that sacred 
connection.” 

“Alas, papa,” replied she, “you are but little acquainted 
with his villainies; he has been married already by the same 
priest to six or eight wives more, whom, like me, he has 
deceived and abandoned.” 

“Has he so?” cried I, “ then we must hang the priest , 1 
and you shall inform against him to-morrow.” — “But, sir,” 
returned she, “will that be right, when I am sworn to 
secrecy?” — “My dear,” I replied, “if you have made such 
a promise, I cannot, nor will I tempt you to break it. Even 
though it may benefit the public, you must not inform against 
him. In all human institutions a smaller evil is allowed to 
procure a greater good; as in politics, a province may be given 
away to secure a kingdom; in medicine, a limb may be lopt 
off to preserve the body. But in religion, the law is written, 
and inflexible, never to do evil. And this law, my child, is 
right; for otherwise, if we commit a smaller evil to procure 
a greater good, certain guilt would be thus incurred, in expec- 

1 See p. 72, note 1, 


122 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


tation of contingent advantage. And though the advantage 
should certainly follow, yet the interval between commission 
and advantage, which is allowed to be guilty, may be that in 
which we are called away to answer for the things we have 
done, and the volume of human actions is closed forever. 
But I interrupt you, my dear; go on.” 

“The very next morning,” continued she, “I found what 
little expectation I was to have from his sincerity; but I strove 
to forget my fault in a tumult of pleasures. With this view I 
danced, dressed, and talked; but still was unhappy. The 
gentlemen who visited there told me every moment of the 
power of my charms, and this only contributed to increase my 
melancholy, as I had thrown all their power quite away. 
Each day I grew more pensive, and he more insolent, till at 
last I desired to part. As I was going, he offered me a purse; 
but I flung it at him with indignation, and burst from him in 
a rage, that for a while kept me insensible of the miseries of 
my situation. Bat I soon looked round me, and saw myself, 
unhappy, without one friend in the world to apply to. Just 
in that interval, a stage coach happening to pass by, I took a 
place, it being my only aim to be driven at a distance from a 
wretch I despised and detested. I was set down here, where, 
since my arrival, my own anxiety and this woman’s unkind- 
ness have been my only companions. The hours of pleasure 
that I have passed with my mamma and sister now grow pain- 
ful to me. Their sorrows are much; but mine are greater 
than theirs.” 

“Have patience, my child,” cried I, “and I hope things 
will yet be better. Take some repose to-night, and to-morrow 
I’ll carry you home to your mother and the rest of the family, 
from whom you will receive a kind reception. Poor woman! 
this has gone to her heart; but she loves you still, Olivia, and 
will forget it.” 


OFFENCES EASILY PARDONED WHERE THERE IS LOVE. 123 


CHAPTER XXII. 

OFFENCES ARE EASILY PARDONED WHERE THERE IS LOVE 
AT BOTTOM. 

The next morning I took my daughter behind me/ and. set 
out on my return home. As we travelled along, I strove by 
every persuasion to calm her sorrows and fears, and to arm 
her with resolution to bear the presence of her offended 
mother. I took every opportunity, from the prospect of a 
fine country, through which we passed, to observe how much 
kinder Heaven was to us than we were to each other, and that 
the misfortunes of Nature’s making were very few. I assured 
her that she should never perceive any change in my affec- 
tions, and that during my life, which yet might be long, she 
might depend upon a guardian and an instructor. I armed 
her against the censure of the world, showed, her that books 
were sweet unreproaching companions to the miserable, and 
that if they could not bring us to enjoy life, they would teach 
us to endure it. 

The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night at 
an inn by the way, within about five miles from my house; 
and as I was willing to prepare my family for my daughter’s 
reception, I determined to leave her that night at the inn, 
and to come for her, accompanied by my daughter Sophia, 
early the next morning. It was night before we reached our 
appointed stage; however, after seeing her provided with a 
decent apartment, and having ordered the hostess to prepare 
proper refreshments, I kissed her, and proceeded towards 
home. My heart caught new sensations of pleasure the nearer 
I approached that peaceful mansion. As a bird that has been 
frighted from its nest, my affections outwent my haste, and 
hovered round my little fireside with all the rapture of expec- 

1 on a pillion. 


124 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


tation. I called up tlie many fond things I had to say, and 
anticipated the welcome I was to receive. I already felt my 
wife’s tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones. 
As I walked but slowly, the night waned apace. The laborers 
of the day were all retired to rest; the lights were out in every 
cottage; no sounds were heard but of the shrilling cock, and 
the deep-mouthed watchdog at hollow distance. I approached 
my little abode of pleasure, and before I was within a furlong 
of the place, our honest mastiff came running to welcome me. 

Ib was now near midnight that I came to knock at my door; 
all was still and silent; my heart dilated with unutterable 
happiness, when, to my amazement, the house was bursting 
out in a blaze of fire, and every aperture was red with con- 
flagration! I gave a loud convulsive outcry, and fell upon the 
pavement insensible. This alarmed my son, who, perceiving 
the flames, instantly waked my wife and daughter; and all run- 
ning out, half-clothed, and wild with apprehension, recalled 
me to life with their anguish. But it was only to objects of new 
terror; for the flames had by this time caught the roof of our 
dwelling, part after part continuing to fall in, while the 
family stood with silent agony, looking on as if they enjoyed 
the blaze. I gazed upon them and upon it by turns, and then 
looked round me for my two little ones; but they were not to 
be seen. Oh, misery! — “Where,” cried I, “where are my 
little ones ? ” — “ They are burnt to death in the flames,” says 
my wife, calmly, “and I will die with them.” That moment 
I heard the cry of the babes 1 within, who were just awaked 
by the fire, and nothing could have stopped me. — “ Where, 
where are my children ? ” cried I, rushing through the flames, 
and bursting the door of the chamber in which they were con- 
fined; “ where are my little ones ? ” — “ Here, dear papa, here 
we are,” cried they together, while the flames were just catch- 
ing the bed where they lay. I caught them both in my arms, 
and snatched them through the fire as fast as possible, while, 

1 They were not actually infants, as may be gathered from their previous conversation. 


OFFENCES EASILY PARDONED WHERE THERE IS LOVE. 125 

just as I was got out, the roof sunk in. — “Now,” cried I, 
holding up my children, “ now let the flames burn on, and 
all my possessions perish. Here they are; I have saved my 
treasure. Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we 
shall yet be happy.” We kissed our little darlings a thousand 
times; they clasped us round the neck, and seemed to share 
our transports, while their mother laughed and wept by 
turns. 

I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and after some 
time began to perceive that my arm to the shoulder was 
scorched in a terrible manner. It was ’ therefore out of my 
power to give my son any assistance , 1 either in attempting to 
save our goods, or preventing the flames spreading to our 
corn. By this time the neighbors were alarmed, and came 
running to our assistance; but all they could do was to stand, 
like us, spectators of the calamity. My goods, among which 
were the notes I had reserved for my daughters’ fortunes, 
were entirely consumed, except a box with some papers that 
stood in the kitchen, and two or three things more of little 
consequence, which my son brought away in the beginning. 
The neighbors contributed, however, what they could to 
lighten our distress. They brought us clothes, and furnished 
one of our out-houses with kitchen utensils; so that by day- 
light we had another, though a wretched dwelling, to retire 
to. My honest next neighbor and his children were not the 
least assiduous in providing us with everything necessary, and 
offering whatever consolation untutored benevolence could 
suggest. 

When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity to 
know the cause of my long stay began to take place; having 
therefore informed them of every particular, I proceeded to 
prepare them for the reception of our lost one, and though 
we had nothing but wretchedness now to impart, yet to pro- 

1 Our previous knowledge of Moses forbids us to imagine that he was doing anything 
of practical utility. 


126 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


cure her a welcome to what we had. This task would have 
been more difficult but for our recent calamity, which had 
humbled my wife’s pride, and blunted it by more poignant 
afflictions. Being unable to go for my poor child myself, as 
my arm now grew very painful, I sent my son and daughter, 
who soon returned, supporting the wretched delinquent, who 
had not courage to look up at her mother, whom no instruc- 
tions of mine could persuade to a perfect reconciliation; for 
women have a much stronger sense of female error than men. 
— 44 Ah, madam,” cried her mother, 44 this is but a poor place 
you are come to after so much finery. My daughter Sophy 
and I can afford hut little entertainment to persons who have 
kept company only with people of distinction. Yes, Miss 
Livy, your poor father and I have suffered very much of late; 
but I hope Heaven will forgive you.” During this reception, 
the unhappy victim stood pale and trembling, unable to weep 
or to reply; but I could not continue a silent spectator of her 
distress; wherefore, assuming a degree of severity in my voice 
and manner, which was ever followed with instant submis- 
sion: — 44 1 entreat, woman, 1 that my words may he now 
marked once for all; I have here brought you back a poor 
deluded wanderer: her return to duty demands the revival of 
our tenderness. The real hardships of life are now coming 
fast upon us; let us not, therefore, increase them by dissen- 
sion among each other. If we live harmoniously together, we 
may yet be contented, as there are enough of us here to shut 
out the censuring world, and keep each other in countenance. 
The kindness of Heaven is promised to the penitent, and let 
ours be directed by the example. Heaven, we are assured, is 
much more pleased to view a repentant sinner, than many 
persons who have supported a course of undeviating rectitude. 
And this is right; for that single effort by which we stop short 
in the down-hill path to perdition is itself a greater exertion 
of virtue than a hundred acts of justice.” 

1 Several times before has Dr. Primrose addressed his wife in this strange fashion. 


NONE BUT THE GUILTY LONG MISERABLE. 


127 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

NONE BUT THE GUILTY CAN BE LONG AND COMPLETELY 
MISERABLE. 

Some assiduity was now required to make our present abode 
as convenient as possible, and we were soon again qualified to 
enjoy our former serenity. Being disabled myself from assist- 
ing my son in our usual occupations, I read to my family from 
the few books that were saved, and particularly from such as, 
by amusing the imagination, contributed to ease the heart. 
Our good neighbors, too, came every day with the kindest 
condolence, and fixed a time in which they were all to assist 
at repairing my former dwelling. Honest Farmer Williams 
was not last among these visitors; but heartily offered his 
friendship. He would even have renewed his addresses to my 
daughter; but she rejected them in such a manner as totally 
repressed his future solicitations. Her grief seemed formed for 
continuing, and she was the only person of our little society 
that a week did not restore to cheerfulness. She now lost 
that unblushing innocence which once taught her to respect 
herself and to seek pleasure by pleasing. Anxiety now had 
taken strong possession of her mind; her beauty began to be 
impaired with her constitution, and neglect still more con- 
tributed to diminish it. Every tender epithet bestowed on 
her sister brought a pang to her heart, and a tear to her eye; 
and as one vice, though cured, ever plants others where it has 
been, so her former guilt, though driven out by repentance, 
left jealousy and envy behind. I strove a thousand ways to 
lessen her care, and even forgot my own pain in a concern for 
hers, collecting such amusing passages of history as a strong 
memory and some reading could suggest. — “ Our happiness, 
my dear,” I would say, “ is in the power of One who can bring 
it about a thousand unforeseen ways that mock our foresight. 


128 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


If example be necessary to prove this, I’ll give you a story, 
my child, told us by a grave, though sometimes a romancing 
historian. 

“ Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan nobleman 
of the first quality, and found herself a widow and a mother 
at the age of fifteen. As she stood one day caressing her 
infant son in the open window of an apartment which hung 
over the river Volturna, the child with a sudden spring leaped 
from her arms into the flood below, and disappeared in a 
moment. The mother, struck with instant surprise, and 
making an effort to save him, plunged in after; but far from 
being able to assist the infant, she herself with great difficulty 
escaped to the opposite shore, just when some French soldiers 
were plundering the country on that side, who immediately 
made her their prisoner. 

“ As the war was then carried on between the French and 
Italians with the utmost inhumanity, they were going at 
once to perpetrate the worst extremes suggested by unbridled 
cruelty. This base resolution, however, was opposed by a 
young officer, who, though their retreat required the utmost 
expedition, placed her behind him, and brought her in safety 
to his native city. Her beauty at first caught his eye, her 
merit soon after his heart. They were married; he rose to 
the highest posts; they lived long together, and were happy. 
But the felicity of a soldier can never be called permanent; 
after an interval of several years, the troops which he com- 
manded having met with a repulse, he was obliged to take 
shelter in the city where he had lived with his wife. Here 
they suffered a siege, and the city at length was taken. Few 
histories can produce more various instances of cruelty than 
those which the French and Italians at that time exercised 
upon each other. It was resolved by the victors, upon this 
occasion, to put all the French prisoners to death; but par- 
ticularly the husband of the unfortunate Matilda, as he was 
principally instrumental in protracting the siege. Their 


NONE BUT THE GUILTY LONG MISERABLE. 


129 


determinations were in general executed almost as soon as 
resolved upon. The captive soldier was led forth, and the 
executioner with his sword stood ready, while the spectators 
in gloomy silence awaited the fatal blow, which was only sus- 
pended till the general, who presided as judge, should give 
the signal. It was in this interval of anguish and expectation 
that Matilda came to take her last farewell of her husband 
and deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the 
cruelty of fate, that had saved her from perishing by a pre- 
mature death in the river Volturna, to be the spectator of still 
greater calamities. The general, who was a young man, was 
struck with surprise at her beauty, and pity at her distress; 
but with still stronger emotions when he heard her mention 
her former dangers. He was her son, the infant for whom 
she had encountered so much danger. He acknowledged her 
at once as his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may he 
easily supposed : the captive was set free, and all the happi- 
ness that love, friendship, and duty could confer on each were 
united.” 

In this manner I would attempt to amuse my daughter; 
but she listened with divided attention, for her own misfor- 
tunes engrossed all the pity she once had for those of another, 
and nothing gave her ease. In company she dreaded con- 
tempt; and in solitude she only found anxiety. Such was 
the color of her wretchedness, when we received certain infor- 
mation that Mr. Thornhill was going to be married to Miss 
Wilmot, for whom I always suspected he had a real passion, 
though he took every opportunity before me to express his 
contempt both of her person and fortune. This news only 
served to increase poor Olivia’s affliction: such a flagrant 
breach of fidelity was more than her courage could support. 
I was resolved, however, to get more certain information, and 
to defeat, if possible, the completion of his designs, by send- 
ing my son to old Mr. Wilmot’s with instructions to know the 
truth of the report, and to deliver Miss Wilmot a letter, inti- 
9 


180 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


mating Mr. Thornhill’s conduct in my family. My son went 
in pursuance of my directions, and in three days returned, 
assuring us of the truth of the account; but that he had 
found it impossible to deliver the letter, which he was there- 
fore obliged to leave, as Mr. Thornhill and Miss Wilmot were 
visiting round the country. They were to be married, he 
said, in a few days, having appeared together at church the 
Sunday before he was there, in great splendor, the bride 
attended by six young ladies dressed in white, and he by as 
many gentlemen. Their approaching nuptials filled the whole 
country with rejoicing, and they usually rode out together in 
the grandest equipage that had been seen in the country for 
many years. All the friends of both families, he said, were 
there, particularly the squire’s uncle. Sir William Thornhill, 
who bore so good a character. He added that nothing but 
mirth and feasting were going forward ; that all the country 
praised the young bride’s beauty, and the bridegroom’s fine 
person, and that they were immensely fond of each other: 
concluding, that he could not help thinking Mr. Thornhill 
one of the most happy men in the world. 

“Why, let him if he can,” returned I; “but, my son, ob- 
serve this bed of straw, and unsheltering roof; those moulder- 
ing walls, and humid floor; my wretched body thus disabled 
by fire, and my children weeping round me for bread; you 
have come home, my child, to all this; yet here, even here, 
you see a man that would not for a thousand worlds exchange 
situations. Oh, my children, if you could but learn to com- 
mune with your own hearts, and know what noble company 
you can make them, you would little regard the elegance and 
splendors of the worthless. Almost all men have been taught 
to call life a passage, and themselves the travellers. The 
similitude still may be improved, when we observe that the 
good are joyful and serene, like travellers that are going 
towards home: the wicked but by intervals happy, like travel- 
lers that are going into exile.” 


FRESH CALAMITIES. 


131 


My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered by this 
new disaster, interrupted what I had farther to observe. I 
bade her mother support her, and after a short time she recov- 
ered. She appeared from this time more calm, and I imag- 
ined had gained a new degree of resolution; hut appearances 
deceived me; for her tranquillity was the languor of over- 
wrought resentment. A supply of provisions, charitably sent 
us by my kind parishioners, seemed to diffuse cheerfulness 
among the rest of the family, nor was I displeased at seeing 
them once more sprightly and at ease. It would have been 
unjust to damp their satisfactions, merely to condole with 
resolute melancholy, or to burden them with a sadness they 
did not feel. Once more, therefore, the tale went round and 
the song v T as demanded, and cheerfulness condescended to 
hover round our little habitation. 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

FRESH CALAMITIES. 

The next morning the sun arose with peculiar warmth for 
the season, so that w T e agreed to breakfast together at the 
honeysuckle bank; where, while we sat, my youngest daugh- 
ter at my request joined her voice to the concert on the trees 
about us. It was here my poor Olivia first met Mr. Thorn- 
hill, and every object served to recall her sadness. But that 
melancholy which is excited by objects of pleasure, or inspired 
by sounds of harmony, soothes the heart instead of corroding 
it. Her mother, too, upon this occasion, felt a pleasing dis- 
tress, and wept, and loved her daughter as before. — “ Do, my 
pretty Olivia,” cried she, “let us have that little melancholy 
air your papa was so fond of; your sister Sophy has already 
obliged us. Do, child, it will please your old father.” She 
complied in a manner so exquisitely pathetic as moved me. 


132 


THE YICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


When lovely woman stoops to folly, 

And finds too late that men betray ; 

What charm can sooth her melancholy, 

What art can wash her guilt away ? 

The only art her guilt to cover, 

To hide her shame from every eye, 

To give repentance to her lover, 

And wring his bosom — is to die. 

As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an inter- 
ruption in her voice from sorrow gave peculiar softness, the 
appearance of Mr. Thornhill’s equipage at a distance alarmed 
us all, but particularly increased the uneasiness of my eldest 
daughter, who, desirous of shunning him, returned to the 
house with her sister. In a few minutes he was alighted 
from his chariot, and making up to the place where I was still 
sitting, inquired after my health with his usual air of famili- 
arity. — “ Sir,” replied I, “your present assurance only serves 
to aggravate the baseness of your character; and there was 
a time when I would have chastised your insolence for pre- 
suming thus to appear before me. But now you are safe; for 
age has cooled my passions, and my calling restrains them.” 

“I vow, my dear sir,” returned he, “I am amazed at all 
this; nor can I understand what it means! I hope you don’t 
think your daughter’s late excursion with me had anything 
criminal in it?” 

“Go,” cried I, “thou art a wretch, a poor pitiful wretch, 
and every way a liar; but your meanness secures you from my 
anger! Yet, sir, I am descended from a family that would 
not have borne this! ” 

“If she or you,” returned he, “are resolved to be miser- 
able, I cannot help it. But you may still be happy; and 
whatever opinion you may have formed of me, you shall ever 
find me ready to contribute to it .” 1 

1 their happiness. 


FRESH CALAMITIES. 


138 


“ Avoid my sight, thou reptile!’’ cried I, “nor continue 
to insult me with thy presence. Were my brave son at home 
he would not suffer this; but I am old and disabled, and 
every, way undone.” 

“ I find,” cried he, “ you are bent upon obliging me to talk 
in a harsher manner than I intended. But as I have shown 
you what may be hoped from my friendship, it may not be 
improper to represent what may be the consequences of my 
resentment. My attorney, to whom your late bond 1 has been 
transferred, threatens hard, nor do I know how to prevent the 
course of justice, except by paying the money myself, which, 
as I have been at some expenses lately, previous to my in- 
tended marriage, is not so easily to be done. And then my 
steward talks of driving 2 for the rent: it is certain he knows 
his duty; for I never trouble myself with affairs of that 
nature. Yet still I could wish to serve you, and even to have 
you and your daughter present at my marriage, which is 
shortly to be solemnized with Miss Wilmot; it is even the 
request of my charming Arabella herself, whom I hope you 
will not refuse.” 

“Mr. Thornhill,” replied I, “hear me once for all: As to 
your marriage with any but my daughter, that I never will 
consent to; and though your friendship could raise me to a 
throne, or your resentment sink me to the grave, yet would 
I despise both. Thou hast once woefully, irreparably deceived 
me. I reposed my heart upon thine honor, and have found 
its baseness. Never more, therefore, expect friendship from 
me. Go, and possess what fortune has given thee, beauty, 
riches, health, and pleasure. Go, and leave me to want, 
infamy, disease, and sorrow. Yet, humbled as I am, shall 
my heart still vindicate its dignity; and though thou hast my 
forgiveness, thou shalt ever have my contempt.” 

“If so,” returned he, “depend upon it you shall feel the 
effects of this insolence; and we shall shortly see which is 


* See p. 117. 


8 See the next page. 


134 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


the fittest object of scorn, you or me.” Upon which he 
departed abruptly. 

My wife and son, who were present at this interview, seemed 
terrified with the apprehension. My daughters, also, finding 
that he was gone, came out to be informed of the result of 
our conference, which, when known, alarmed them not less 
than the rest. But as to myself, I disregarded the utmost 
stretch of his malevolence: he had already struck the blow, 
and now I stood prepared to repel every new effort; like one 
of those instruments used in the art of war, which, however 
thrown, still presents a point to receive the enemy. 

We soon, however, found that he had not threatened in 
vain; for the very next day his steward came to demand my 
annual rent, which, by the train of accidents already related, 
I was unable to pay. The consequence of my incapacity was 
his driving my cattle that evening, and their being appraised 
and sold the next day for less than half their value. My wife 
and children now therefore entreated me to comply upon any 
terms, rather than incur certain destruction. They even 
begged of me to admit his visits once more, and used all their 
little eloquence to paint the calamities I was going to endure; 
the terrors of a prison 1 in so rigorous a season as the present, 
with the danger that threatened my health from the late acci- 
dent that happened by the fire. But I continued inflexible. 

“ Why, my treasures,” cried I, “ why will you thus attempt 
to persuade me to the thing that is not right ? My duty has 
taught me to forgive him; but my conscience will not permit 
me to approve. Would you have me applaud to the world 
what my heart must internally condemn ? Would you have 
me tamely sit down and flatter our infamous betrayer; and, 
to avoid a prison, continually suffer the more galling bonds of 
mental confinement ? No, never ! If we are to be taken from 
this abode, only let us hold to the right; and wherever we are 

1 Persons who could not pay their debts were, in those days, put in prison till they 
should be able to do so. 


FRESH CALAMITIES. 


135 


thrown, we can still retire to a charming apartment, and look 
round our own hearts with intrepidity and with pleasure! ” 

In this manner we spent that evening. Early the next 
morning, as the snow had fallen in great abundance in the 
night, my son was employed in clearing it away, and opening 
a passage before the door. He had not been thus engaged 
long, when he came running in, with looks all pale, to tell us 
that two strangers, whom he knew to be officers of justice, 
were making towards the house. 

Just as he spoke they came in, and approaching the bed 
where I lay, after previously informing me of their employ- 
ment and business, made me their prisoner, bidding me pre- 
pare to go with them to the county jail, which was eleven 
miles off. 

“ My friends/’ said I, “ this is severe weather on which you 
have come to take me to a prison ; and it is particularly unfor- 
tunate at this time, as one of my arms has lately been burnt 
in a terrible manner, and it has thrown me into a slight fever, 
and I want clothes to cover me; and I am now too weak and 
old to walk far in such deep snow; but if it must be so. I’ll 
try to obey you.” 

I then turned to my wife and children, and directed them 
to get together what few things were left us, and to prepare 
immediately for leaving this place. I entreated them to be 
expeditious, and desired my son to assist his elder sister, who, 
from a consciousness that she was the cause of all our calami- 
ties, was fallen, and had lost anguish in insensibility. I 
encouraged my wife, who, pale and trembling, clasped our 
affrighted little ones in her arms, that clung to her bosom in 
silence, dreading to look round at the strangers. In the mean 
time, my youngest daughter prepared for our departure, and 
as she received several hints to use despatch, in about an hour 
we were ready to depart. 


136 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

NO SITUATION, HOWEVER WRETCHED IT SEEMS, BUT HAS 
SOME SORT OF COMFORT ATTENDING IT. 

We set forward from tliis peaceful neighborhood, and 
walked on slowly. My eldest daughter being enfeebled by 
a slow fever, which had begun for some days to undermine 
her constitution, one of the officers, who had a horse, kindly 
took her behind him; for even these men cannot entirely 
divest themselves of humanity. My son led one of the little 
ones by the hand, and my wife the other, while I leaned upon 
my youngest girl, whose tears fell not for her own but my 
distresses. 

We were now got from my late dwelling about two miles, 
when we saw a crowd running and shouting behind us, con- 
sisting of about fifty of my poorest parishioners. These, with 
dreadful imprecations, soon seized upon the two officers of 
justice, and, swearing they would never see their minister go 
to jail while they had a drop of blood to shed in his defence, 
were going to use them with the greatest severity. The con- 
sequence might have been fatal had I not immediately inter- 
posed, and with some difficulty rescued the officers from the 
hands of the enraged multitude. My children, who looked 
upon my delivery now as certain, appeared transported with 
joy, and were incapable of containing their raptures. But 
they were soon undeceived, upon hearing me address the poor 
deluded people, who came, as they imagined, to do me service. 

<4 Wliat! my friends,” cried I, “and is this the way you 
love me ? Is this the manner you obey the instructions I have 
given you from the pulpit ? Thus to fly in the face of justice, 
and bring down ruin on yourselves and me? Which is your 
ringleader ? Show me the man that has thus seduced you. 
As sure as he lives he shall feel my resentment. Alas! my 


NO SITUATION BUT HAS SOME SORT OF COMFORT. 137 


dear deluded flock, return back to the duty you owe to God, 
to your country, and *to me. I shall yet perhaps one day see 
you in greater felicity here, and contribute to make your lives 
more happy. But let it at least be my comfort when I pen 
my fold for immortality, that not one here shall be wanting.’ ’ 

They now seemed all repentance, and, melting into tears, 
came one after the other to bid me farewell. I shook each 
tenderly by the hand, and, leaving them my blessing, pro- 
ceeded forward without meeting any farther interruption. 
Some hours before night we reached the town, or rather vil- 
lage, for it consisted but of a few mean houses, having lost all 
its former opulence, and retaining no marks of its ancient 
superiority but the jail. 

Upon entering we put up at an inn, where we had such 
refreshments as could most readily be procured, and I supped 
with my family with my usual cheerfulness. After seeing 
them properly accommodated for that night, I next attended 
the sherifl’s officers to the prison, which had formerly been 
built for the purposes of war, and consisted of one large apart- 
ment, strongly grated and paved with stone, common to both 
felons 1 and debtors at certain hours in the four-and-twenty. 
Besides this, every prisoner had a separate cell, where he was 
locked in for the night. 

I expected upon my entrance to find nothing but lamenta- 
tions and various sounds of misery; but it was very different. 
The prisoners seemed all employed in one common design, 
that of forgetting thought in merriment or clamor. I was 
apprised of the usual perquisite required upon these occasions, 
and immediately complied with the demand, though the little 
money I had was very near being all exhausted. This was 
immediately sent away for liquor, and the whole prison soon 
was filled with riot, laughter, and profaneness. 

“How,” cried I to myself, “shall men so very wicked be 
cheerful, and shall I be melancholy; I feel only the same con- 

1 The word is loosely used for criminals of all degrees. 


138 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


finement with them, and I think I have more reason to be 
happy.” 

With such reflections I labored to become cheerful; but 
cheerfulness was never yet produced by effort which is itself 
painful. As I was sitting therefore in a corner of the jail, in 
a pensive posture, one of my fellow-prisoners came up, and, 
sitting by me, entered into conversation. It was my constant 
rule in life never to avoid the conversation of any man who 
seemed, to desire it: for if good, I might profit by his instruc- 
tion; if bad, he might be assisted by mine. I found this to 
be a knowing man, of strong unlettered sense, but a thorough 
knowledge of the world, as it was called, or more properly 
speaking, of human nature on the wrong side. He asked me 
if I had taken care to provide myself with a bed, which was 
a circumstance I had never once attended to. 

“ That’s unfortunate,” cried he, “as you are allowed here 
nothing but straw, and your apartment is very large and cold. 
However, you seem to be something of a gentleman, and as 
I have been one myself in my time, part of my bedclothes are 
heartily at your service.” 

I thanked him, professing my surprise at finding such 
humanity in a jail in misfortunes; adding, to let him see that 
I was a scholar, “ That the sage ancient seemed to understand 
the value of company in affliction, when he said, Ton kosmon 
aire, ei dos ton etairon j 1 and in fact,” continued I, “what 
is the world, if it affords only solitude ? ” 

“ You talk of the world, sir,” returned my fellow-prisoner: 
“The world is in its dotage ; 2 and yet the cosmogony or 
creation of the world has puzzled the philosophers of every 
age. What a medley of opinions have they not broached 
upon the creation of the world! Sanconiatlion, Manetho, 
Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus, have all attempted it in vain. 
The latter has these words, Anarchon ara kai atelutaion to 
pan, which implies — ” — “I ask pardon, sir,” cried I, “for 

1 “Take the world, if you will leave a companion.” 2 g ee p, 05. 


NO SITUATION BUT HAS SOME SORT OF COMFORT. 139 


interrupting so much learning; but I think I have heard all 
this before. Have I not had the pleasure of once seeing you 
at Welbridge fair, and is not your name Ephraim Jenkin- 
son?” At this demand, he only sighed. “ I suppose you 
must recollect, ” resumed I, “one Doctor Primrose, from 
whom you bought a horse ? ” 

He now at once recollected me; for the gloominess of the 
place and the approaching night 'had prevented his distin- 
guishing my features before. — “ Yes, sir,” returned Mr. Jen- 
kinson, “I remember you perfectly well; I bought a horse, 
but forgot to pay for him. Your neighbor Flamborough is 
the only prosecutor I am anyway afraid of at the next assizes: 
for he intends to swear positively against me as a coiner . 1 I 
am heartily sorry, sir, I ever deceived you, or indeed any 
man; for you see,” continued he, showing his shackles, 
“ what my tricks have brought me to.” 

“ Well, sir,” replied I, “ your kindness in offering me assist- 
ance when you could expect no return shall be repaid with my 
endeavors to soften or totally suppress Mr. Flamborough’s 
evidence, and I will send my son to him for that purpose the 
first opportunity; nor do I in the least doubt but he will com- 
ply with my request; and as to my own evidence, you need be 
under no uneasiness about that.” 

“ Well, sir,” cried he, “all the return I can make shall be 
yours. You shall have more than half my bedclothes to-night, 
and I’ll take care to stand your friend in the prison, where 
I think I have some influence.” 

I thanked him, and could not avoid being surprised at the 
present youthful change in his aspect; for at the time I had 
seen him before, he appeared at least sixty. — “ Sir,” answered 
he, “you are little acquainted with the world; I had at that 
time false hair, and have learned the art of counterfeiting 
every age from seventeen to seventy. Ah ! sir, had I but 
bestowed half the pains in learning a trade, that I have in 

i a counterfeiter. 


140 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


learning to be a scoundrel, I might have been a rich man at 
this day. But rogue as I am, still I may be your friend, and 
that perhaps when you least expect it.” 

We were now prevented from further conversation by the 
arrival of the jailer’s servants, who came to call over the pris- 
oners’ names, and lock up for the night. A fellow also with 
a bundle of straw for my bed attended, who led me along 
a dark narrow passage into a room paved like the common 
prison, and in one corner of this I spread my bed, and the 
clothes given me by my fellow-prisoner; which done, my con- 
ductor, who was civil enough, bade me a good night. After 
my usual meditations, and having praised my Heavenly Cor- 
rector, I laid myself down, and slept with the utmost tran- 
quillity till morning. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

A REFORMATION- IN THE JAIL. TO MAKE LAWS COMPLETE, 
THEY SHOULD REWARD AS WELL AS PUNISH. 

The next morning early I was awakened by my family, 
whom I found in tears at my bedside. The gloomy strength 
of everything about us, it seems, had daunted them. I gently 
rebuked their sorrow, assuring them I had never slept with 
greater tranquillity, and next inquired after my eldest daugh- 
ter, who was not among them. They informed me that yes- 
terday’s uneasiness and fatigue had increased her fever, and 
it was judged proper to leave her behind. My next care was 
to send my son to procure a room or two to lodge the family 
in, as near the prison as conveniently could be found. He 
obeyed; but could only find one apartment, which was hired 
at a small expense for his mother and sisters, the jailer with 
humanity consenting to let him and his two little brothers lie 
in the prison with me. A bed was therefore prepared for 
them in a corner of the room, which I thought answered very 


A REFORMATION IN THE JAIL. 


141 


conveniently. I was willing, however, previously, to know 
whether my little children chose to lie in a place which seemed 
to fright them upon entrance. 

“Well,” cried I, “my good boys, how do you like your 
bed ? I hope you are not afraid to lie in this room, dark as 
it appears? ” 

“No, papa,” says Dick, “I am not afraid to lie anywhere 
where you are.” 

“ And I,” says Bill, who was yet but four years old, “love 
every place best that my papa is in.” 

After this I allotted to each of the family what they were to 
do. My daughter was particularly directed to watch her 
declining sister’s health; my wife was to attend to me; my 
little boys were to read to me. “And as for you, my son,” 
continued I, “it is by the labor of your hands we must all 
hope to be supported. Your wages as a day-laborer will be 
full sufficient, with proper frugality, to maintain us all, and 
comfortably too. Thou art now sixteen years old, and hast 
strength; and it was given thee, my son, for very useful pur- 
poses; for it must save from famine your helpless parents and 
family. Prepare, then, this evening to look out for work 
against to-morrow, and bring home every night what money 
you earn for our support.” 

Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, I walked 
down to the common 1 prison, where I could enjoy more air 
and room. But I was not long there when the execrations 
and brutality, that invaded me on every side, drove me back 
to my apartment again. Here I sat for some time pondering 
upon the strange infatuation of wretches, who, finding all 
mankind in open arms against them, were, however, laboring 
to make themselves a future and a tremendous enemy. 

Their insensibility excited my highest compassion, and 
blotted my own uneasiness awhile from my mind. It even 
appeared as a duty incumbent upon me to attempt to reclaim 

1 general. 


142 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


them. I resolved, therefore, once more to return, and, in 
spite of their contempt, to give them my advice, and conquer 
them by perseverance. Going, therefore, among them again, 
I informed Mr. Jenkinson of my design, at which he laughed, 
but communicated it to the rest. The proposal was received 
with the greatest good humor, as it promised to afford a new 
fund of entertainment to persons who had now no other 
resource for mirth, but what could be derived from ridicule 
or debauchery. 

I therefore read them a portion of the service with a loud 
unaffected voice, and found my audience perfectly merry 
upon the occasion. Whispers, groans of contrition bur- 
lesqued, winking and coughing, alternately excited laughter. 
However, I conti uued with my natural solemnity to read on, 
sensible that what I did might amend some, but could itself 
receive no contamination from any. 

After reading I entered upon my exhortation, which was 
rather calculated at first to amuse than to reprove. I pre- 
viously observed, that no other motive but their welfare could 
induce me to this; that I was their fellow-prisoner, and now 
gained nothing by preaching. I was sorry, I said, to hear 
them so very profane; because they got nothing by it, but 
might lose a great deal: “For be assured, my friends,” cried 
I, “for you are my friends, however the world may disclaim 
your friendship, though you swore a thousand oaths in a day, 
it would not put one penny in your purse. Then what sig- 
nifies calling every moment upon the devil, and courting his 
friendship, since you find how scurvily he uses you ? He has 
given you nothing here, you find, but a mouthful of oaths and 
an empty belly; and by the best accounts I have of him, he 
will give you nothing that’s good hereafter. 

“If used ill in our dealings with one man, we naturally go 
elsewhere. Were it not worth your while, then, just to try 
how you may like the usage of another master, who gives you 
fair promises at least to come to him ? Surely, my friends, of 


A REFORMATION IN THE JAIL. 


143 


all stupidity in the world, his must be greatest, who, after 
robbing a house, runs to the thief-takers for protection. And 
yet how are you more wise? You are all seeking comfort 
from him that has already betrayed you, applying to a more 
malicious being than any thief-taker of them all; for they 
only decoy, and then hang you; but he decoys and hangs, 
and, what is worst of all, will not let you loose after the 
hangman has done.” 

When I had concluded, I received the compliments of my 
audience, some of whom came and shook me by the hand, 
swearing that I was a very honest fellow, and that they desired 
my further acquaintance. I therefore promised to repeat my 
lecture next day, and actually conceived some hopes of mak- 
ing a reformation here; for it had ever been my opinion, that 
no man was past the hour of amendment, every heart lying 
open to the shafts of reproof, if the archer could but take 
a proper aim. When I had thus satisfied my mind, I went 
back to my apartment, where my wife had prepared a frugal 
meal, while Mr. Jenkinson begged leave to add his dinner to 
ours, and partake of the pleasure, as he was kind enough to 
express it, of my conversation. He had not yet seen my 
family; for as they came to my apartment by a door in the 
narrow passage already described, by this means they avoided 
the common prison. Jenkinson, at the first interview, there- 
fore, seemed not a little struck with the beauty of my young- 
est daughter, which her pensive air contributed to heighten; 
and my little ones did not pass unnoticed. 

“Alas, doctor,” cried he, “these children are too hand- 
some and too good for such a place as this! ” 

“Why, Mr. Jenkinson,” replied I, “thank Heaven, my 
children are pretty tolerable in morals; and if they be good, 
it matters little for the rest.” 

“ I fancy, sir,” returned my fellow-prisoner, “ that it must 
give you great comfort to have this little family about you.” 

“ A comfort, Mr. Jenkinson! ” replied I; “ yes, it is indeed 


144 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


a comfort, and I would not be without them for all the world; 
for they can make a dungeon seem a palace. There is but 
one way in this life of wounding my happiness, and that is by 
injuring them.” 

“I am afraid, then, sir,” cried he, “that I am in some 
measure culpable; for I think I see here” (looking at my son 
Moses) “one that I have injured, and by whom I wish to be 
forgiven.” 

My son immediately recollected his voice and features, 
though he had before seen him in disguise, and taking him 
by the hand, with a smile forgave him. “Yet,” continued 
he, “ I can’t help wondering at what you could see in my 
face, to think me a proper mark for deception.” 

“My dear sir,” returned the other, “it was not your face, 
but your white stockings, and the black riband in your hair, 
that allured me. But no disparagement to your parts, I have 
deceived wiser men than you in my time; and yet, with all 
my tricks, the blockheads have been too many for me at 
last.” 

“I suppose,” cried my son, “that the narrative of such a 
life as yours must be extremely instructive and amusing.” 

“Not much of either,” returned Mr. Jenkinson. “ Those 
relations which describe the tricks and vices only of mankind, 
by increasing our suspicion in life, retard our success. The 
traveller that distrusts every person he meets, and turns back 
upon the appearance of every man that looks like a robber, 
seldom arrives in time to his journey’s end. 

“ Indeed, I think, from my own experience, I may say that 
the knowing one is the silliest fellow under the sun. I was 
thought cunning 1 from my very childhood ; when but seven 
years old the ladies would say that I was a perfect little man; 
at fourteen I knew the world, cocked my hat, and loved the 
ladies; at twenty, though I was perfectly honest, yet every 
one thought me so cunning, that not one would trust me. 

1 Has the word the same meaning as some lines below ? 


THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 


145 


Thus at last I was obliged to turn sharper in my own defence, 
and have lived ever since, my head throbbing with schemes to 
deceive, and my heart palpitating with fears of detection. I 
used often to laugh at your honest simple neighbor Flam- 
borough, and one way or another generally cheated him once 
a year. Yet still the honest man went forward without sus- 
picion, and grew rich, while I still continued tricksy and cun- 
ning, and was poor without the consolation of being honest. 
However,” continued he, “let me know your case, and what 
has brought you here; perhaps, though I have not skill to 
avoid a jail myself, I may extricate my friends.” 

In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him of the 
whole train of accidents and follies that had plunged me into 
my present troubles, and my utter inability to get free. 

After hearing my story, and pausing some minutes, he 
slapped his forehead, as if he had hit upon something material, 
and took his leave, saying he would try what could be done. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 

The next morning, I communicated to my wife and chil- 
dren the scheme I had planned of reforming the prisoners , 1 
which they received with universal disapprobation, alleging 
the impossibility and impropriety of it; adding that my en- 
deavors would no way contribute to their amendment, but 
might probably disgrace my calling. 

“Excuse me,” returned I; “these people, however fallen, 
are still men; and that is a very good title to my affections. 
Good counsel rejected returns to enrich the giver’s bosom; 
and though the instruction I communicate may not mend 

1 It may seem strange to us that religious was not till 1773 that John Howard, then 
work among prisoners seemed something sheriff of Bedfordshire, began his work 
so extraordinary and out-of-the-way. It in prison improvement and reform. 

10 


146 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


them., yet it will assuredly mend myself. If these wretches, 
my children, were princes, there would be thousands ready to 
offer their ministry; but, in my opinion, the heart that is 
buried in a dungeon is as precious as that seated upon a 
throne. Yes, my treasures, if I can mend them, I will : per- 
haps they will not all despise me. Perhaps I may catch up 
even one from the gulf, and that will be great gain: for is 
there upon earth a gem so precious as the human soul ? 99 

Thus saying, I left them, and descended to the common 
prison, where I found the prisoners very merry, expecting my 
arrival; and each prepared with some jail trick to play upon 
the Doctor. Thus, as I was going to begin, one turned my 
wig awry, as if by accident, and then asked my pardon. A 
second, who stood at some distance, had a knack of spitting 
through his teeth, which fell in showers upon my book. A 
third would cry amen in such an affected tone as gave the rest 
great delight. A fourth had slyly picked my pocket of my 
spectacles. But there was one whose trick gave more univer- 
sal pleasure than all the rest; for observing the manner in 
which I had disposed my books on the table before me, he 
very dexterously displaced one of them, and put a vulgar jest 
book of his own in the place. However, I took no notice of 
all that this mischievous group of little beings could do, but 
went on, perfectly sensible that what was ridiculous in my 
attempt would excite mirth only the first or second time, 
while what was serious would be permanent. My design 
succeeded, and in less than six days some were penitent, 
and all attentive. 

It was now that I applauded my perseverance and address, 
at thus giving sensibility to wretches divested of every moral 
feeling; and now began to think of doing them temporal ser- 
vices also, by rendering their situation somewhat more com- 
fortable. Their time had hitherto been divided between fam- 
ine and excess, tumultuous riot and bitter repining. Their 
only employment was quarrelling among each other, playing 


THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 


147 


cribbage, and catting tobacco- stoppers . 1 From this last mode 
of idle industry, I took the hint of setting such as chose to 
work at cutting pegs for tobacconists and shoemakers, the 
proper wood being bought by a general subscription, and 
when manufactured sold by my appointment; so that each 
earned something every day — a trifle indeed, but sufficient to 
maintain him. 

I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the punishment 
of immorality, and rewards for peculiar industry. Thus in 
less than a fortnight I had formed them into something social 
and humane , 2 and had the pleasure of regarding myself as a 
legislator who had brought men from their native ferocity 
into friendship and obedience. 

And it were highly to be wished, that legislative power 
would thus direct the law rather to reformation than severity; 
that it would appear convinced, that the work of eradicating 
crimes is not by making punishments familiar, but formid- 
able. Instead of our present prisons, which find or make 
men guilty, which inclose wretches for the commission of one 
crime, and return them, if returned alive, fitted for the per- 
petration of thousands; it were to be wished we had, as in 
other parts of Europe , 3 places of penitence and solitude, where 
the accused might be attended by such as could give them 
repentance, if guilty, or new motives to virtue, if innocent. 
And this, but not the increasing punishments, is the way to 
mend a state. Nor can I avoid even questioning the validity 
of that right which social combinations have assumed, of cap- 
itally punishing offences of a slight nature . 4 In cases of mur- 
der, their right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the 
law of self-defence, to cut off that man who has shown a dis- 
regard for the life of another. Against such all nature rises 
in arms: but it is not so against him who steals my property. 

1 Little articles formerly used to com- 3 It was not till some years after the 

press the tobacco in pipes. “ Vicar ” was published, that Howard made 

2 civilized ; i.e., such a state as human his trips abroad to study continental prisons, 

beings ought to live in together. 4 See p. 72. 


148 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


Natural law gives me no right to take away his life, as, hy 
that, the horse he steals is as much his property as mine. 
If then I have any right, it must be from a compact made 
between us, that he who deprives the other of his horse shall 
die. But this is a false compact, because no man has a right 
to barter his life no more than to take it away, as it is not his 
own. And next, the compact is inadequate, and would be set 
aside even in a court of modern equity, as there is a great 
penalty for a very trifling convenience, since it is far better 
that two men should live, than that one man should ride. 
But a compact that is false between two men is equally so 
between a hundred, or a hundred thousand; for as ten mil- 
lions of circles can never make a square, so the united voice 
of myriads cannot lend the smallest foundation to falsehood. 
It is thus that reason speaks, and untutored nature says the 
same thing. Savages, that are directed by natural law alone, 
are very tender of the lives of each other; they seldom shed 
blood but to retaliate former cruelty. 

Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, had hut 
few executions in times of peace; and in all commencing gov- 
ernments 1 that have the print of nature still strong upon 
them, scarce any crime is held capital. 

It is among the citizens of a refined community that penal 
laws, which are in the hands of the rich, are laid upon the 
poor. Government, while it grows older, seems to acquire 
the moroseness of age ; and as if our possessions were become 
dearer in proportion as they increased ; as if the more enor- 
mous our wealth, the more extensive our fears, all our posses- 
sions are paled 1 up with new edicts every day, and hung 
round with gibbets to scare every invader. 

Whether is it from the number of our penal laws or the 
licentiousness of our people, that this country should show 
more convicts in a year than half the dominions of Europe 
united ? Perhaps it is owing to both ; for they mutually pro- 

1 governments still young. 3 fenced. 


TEMPORAL EYILS OR FELICITIES TRIFLING. 149 


duce each other. When, by indiscriminate penal laws, a 
nation beholds the same punishment 1 affixed to dissimilar de- 
grees of guilt, from perceiving no distinction in the penalty, 
the people are led to lose all sense of distinction in the crime, 
and this distinction is the bulwark of all morality. Thus the 
multitude of laws produce new vices, and new vices call for 
fresh restraints. 

It were to be wished, then, that power, instead of contriv- 
ing new laws to punish vice; instead of drawing hard the 
cords of society till a convulsion come to burst them; instead 
of cutting away wretches as useless before we have tried their 
utility; instead of converting correction into vengeance, — it 
were to be wished that we tried the restrictive arts of govern- 
ment, and made law the protector, but not the tyrant of the 
people. We should then find that creatures, whose souls are 
held as dross, only wanted the hand of a refiner. We should 
then find that wretches, now stuck up for long tortures, lest 
luxury should feel a momentary pang, might, if properly 
treated, serve to sinew the' state in times of danger; that as 
their faces are like ours, their hearts are so too; that few 
minds are so base as that perseverance cannot amend; that 
a man may see his last crime without dying for it; and that 
very little blood will serve to cement our security. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

HAPPINESS AND MISERY RATHER THE RESULT OE PRUDENCE 
THAN OF VIRTUE, IN THIS LIFE; TEMPORAL EVILS OR 
FELICITIES BEING REGARDED BY HEAVEN AS THINGS 
MERELY IN THEMSELVES TRIFLING, AND UNWORTHY ITS 
CARE IN THE DISTRIBUTION. 

I had now been confined more than a fortnight, but had 
not since my arrival been visited by my dear Olivia, and I 

1 i.e., the death penalty. 


150 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


greatly longed to see lier. Having communicated my wishes 
to my wife, the next morning the poor girl entered my apart- 
ment leaning on her sister’s arm. The change which I saw 
in her countenance struck me. The numberless graces that 
once resided there were now fled, and the hand of death 
seemed to have moulded every feature to alarm me. Her 
temples were sunk, her forehead was tense, and a fatal pale- 
ness sat upon her cheek. 

“ I am glad to see thee, my dear,” cried I, “ but why this 
dejection, Livy ? I hope, my love, you have too great a regard 
for me to permit disappointment thus to undermine a life 
which I prize as my own. Be cheerful, child, and we may 
yet see happier days.” 

“You have ever, sir,” replied she, “been kind to me, and 
it adds to my pain that I shall never have an opportunity of 
sharing that happiness you promise. Happiness, I fear, is no 
longer reserved for me here: and I long to be rid of a place 
where I have only found distress. Indeed, sir, I wish you 
would make a proper submission to Mr. Thornhill : it may in 
some measure induce him to pity you, and it will give me 
relief in dying.” 

“Never, child,” replied I. “My dear, I am no way mis- 
erable in this place, however dismal it may seem; and be 
assured, that while you continue to bless me by living, he 
shall never have my consent to make you more wretched by 
marrying another.” 

After the departure of my daughter, my fellow-prisoner, 
who was by at this interview, sensibly enough expostulated 
upon my obstinacy in refusing a submission which promised 
to give me freedom. He observed, that the rest of my family 
was not to be sacrificed to the peace of one child alone, and 
she the only one who had offended me. “Besides,” added 
lie, “I don’t know if it be just thus to obstruct the union of 
man and wife, which you do at present, by refusing to consent 
to a match which you cannot hinder, but may render unhappy.” 


TEMPORAL EVILS OR FELICITIES TRIFLING. 151 


“Sir,” replied I, “you are unacquainted with the man 
that oppresses us. I am very sensible that no submission 
I can make could procure me liberty even for an hour. I am 
told that even in this very room a debtor of his, no later than 
last year, died for want. But though my submission and 
approbation could transfer me from hence to the most beauti- 
ful apartment he is possessed of, yet I would grant neither. 
While my daughter lives, no other marriage of his shall ever 
be legal in my eye. Were she removed, indeed, I should be 
the basest of men, from any resentment of my own, to attempt 
putting asunder those who wish for a union. But should I 
not now be the most cruel of all fathers to sign an instrument 
which must send my child to the grave, merely to avoid a 
prison myself; and thus, to escape one pang, break my child’s 
heart with a thousand ? ” 

He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, hut could not 
avoid observing, that he feared my daughter’s life was already 
too much wasted to keep me long a prisoner. “ However,” 
continued he, “though you refuse to submit to the nephew, 
I hope you have no objections to laying your case before the 
uncle , 1 who has the first character in the kingdom for every- 
thing that is just and good. I would advise you to send him 
a letter by the post, intimating all his nephew’s ill usage, and 
my life for it, that in three days you shall have an answer.” 
I thanked him for the hint, and instantly set about comply- 
ing; but I wanted paper, and unluckily all our money had 
been laid out that morning in provisions; however, he sup- 
plied me. 

For the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety to 
know what reception my letter might meet with; but in the 
mean time was frequently solicited by my wife to submit to 
any conditions rather than remain here, and every hour 
received repeated accounts of the decline of my daughter’s 
health. The third day and the fourth arrived, but I received 

1 i.e., Sir William Thornhill, mentioned on p. 13. 


152 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


no answer to my letter; the complaints of a stranger against 
a favorite nephew were no way likely to succeed; so that these 
hopes soon vanished like all my former. My mind, however, 
still supported itself, though confinement and bad air began 
to make a visible alteration in my health, and my arm that 
had suffered in the fire grew worse. But my children still sat 
by me, and, while I was stretched on my straw, read to me by 
turns, or listened and wept at my instructions. But my 
daughter’s health declined faster than mine; every message 
from her contributed to increase my apprehension and pain. 
The fifth morning after I had written the letter which was 
sent to Sir William Thornhill, I was alarmed with an account 
that she was speechless. Now it was that confinement was 
truly painful to me; my soul was bursting from its prison to 
be near the pillow of my child, to comfort, to strengthen her, 
to receive her last wishes, and teach her soul the way to 
Heaven! Another account came: She was expiring, and yet 
I was debarred the small comfort of weeping by her. My 
fellow-prisoner, some time after, came with the last account. 
He bade me be patient; she was dead! The next morning 
he returned, and found me with my two little ones, now my 
only companions, who were using all their innocent efforts to 
comfort me. They entreated to read 1 to me, and bid me not 
to cry, for I was now too old to weep. — “ And is not my sister 
an angel now, papa?” cried the eldest; “and why then are 
you sorry for her ? I wish I were an angel out of this fright- 
ful place, if my papa were with me.” — “Yes,” added my 
youngest darling, “ Heaven, where my sister is, is a finer 
place than this, and there are none but good people there, 
and the people here are very bad.” 

Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prattle by observ- 
ing that, now my daughter was no more, I should seriously 
think of the rest of my family, and attempt to save my own 
life which was every day declining for want of necessaries and 


1 a curious construction. 


TEMPORAL EVILS OR FELICITIES TRIFLING. 153 


wholesome air. He added, that it was now incumbent on me 
to sacrifice any pride or resentment of my own to the welfare 
of those who depended on me for support; and that I was 
now, both by reason and justice, obliged to try to reconcile 
my landlord. 

“ Heaven be praised,” replied I, “ there is no pride left me 
now : I should detest my own heart if I saw either pride or 
resentment lurking there. On the contrary, as my oppressor 
has been once my parishioner, I hope one day to present him 
up an unpolluted soul at the eternal tribunal. No, sir, I 
have no resentment now; and though he has taken from me 
what I held dearer than all his treasures, though he has wrung 
my heart, — for I am sick almost to fainting, very sick, my 
fellow-prisoner, — yet that shall never inspire me with ven- 
geance. I am now willing to approve his marriage; and if 
this submission can do him any pleasure, let him know that 
if I have done him any injury I am sorry for it.” 

Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote down my sub- 
mission nearly as I have expressed it, to which I signed my 
name. My son was employed to carry the letter to Mr. Thorn- 
hill, who was then at his seat in the country. He went, and 
in about six hours returned with a verbal answer. He had 
some difficulty, he said, to get a sight of his landlord, as the 
servants were insolent and suspicious: but he accidentally saw 
him as he was going out upon business, preparing for his mar- 
riage, which was to be in three days. He continued to inform 
us, that he stept up in the humblest manner, and delivered 
the letter, which when Mr. Thornhill had read, he said that 
all submission was now too late and unnecessary; that he had 
heard of our application to his uncle, which met with the con- 
tempt it deserved; and as for the rest, that all future appli- 
cations should be directed to his attorney, not to him. He 
observed, however, that as he had a very good opinion of the 
discretion of the two young ladies, they might have been the 
most agreeable intercessors. 


154 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


“Well, sir,” said I to my fellow-prisoner, “you now dis- 
cover the temper of the man that oppresses me. He can at 
once be facetious and cruel ; but let him use me as he will, 
I shall soon be free, in spite of all his bolts to restrain me. 
I am now drawing towards an abode that looks brighter as I 
approach it; this expectation cheers my afflictions, and 
though I shall leave a helpless family of orphans behind me, 
yet they will not be utterly forsaken; some friend, perhaps, 
will be found to assist them for the sake of their poor father, 
and some may charitably relieve them for the sake of their 
heavenly Father.” 

Just as I had spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen that 
day before, appeared with looks of terror, and making efforts, 
but unable to speak. “Why, my love,” cried I, “why will 
you thus increase my afflictions by your own ? What though 
no submissions can turn our severe master, though he has 
doomed me to die in this place of wretchedness, and though 
we have lost a darling child, yet still you will find comfort in 
your other children when I shall be no more.” — “We have 
indeed lost,” returned she, “a darling child. My Sophia, 
my dearest, is gone; snatched from us, carried off by ruf- 
fians! ” — “How, madam,” cried my fellow-prisoner, “Miss 
Sophia carried off by villains! sure it cannot be.” 

She could only answer with a fixed look and a flood of tears. 
But one of the prisoner’s wives who was present, and came in 
with her, gave us a more distinct account; she informed us, 
that as my wife, my daughter, and herself were taking a walk 
together on the great road, a little way out of the village, a 
post-chaise and four drove up to them, and instantly stopped. 
Upon which a well-dressed man, but not Mr. Thornhill, step- 
ping out, clasped my daughter round the waist, and forcing 
her in, bid the postillion drive on, so that they were out of 
sight in a moment. 

“Now,” cried I, “the sum of my miseries is made up, nor 
is it in the power of anything on earth to give me another 


TEMPORAL EVILS OR FELICITIES TRIFLING. 155 


pang. What! not one left! not to leave me one! The mon- 
ster! The child that was next to my heart! she had the 
beauty of an angel, and almost the wisdom of an angel. But 
support that woman, nor let her fall. Not to leave me one! ” 

“Alas! my husband,” said my wife, “you seem to want 
comfort even more than I. Our distresses are great; but I 
could bear this and more, if I saw yon but easy. They may 
take away my children, and all the world, if they leave me 
but you.” My son, who was present, endeavored to moderate 
our grief; he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that we 
might still have reason to be thankful. 

“My child,” cried I, “look round the world, and see if 
there be any happiness left me now. Is not every ray of com- 
fort shut out, while all our bright prospects only lie beyond the 
grave!” — “My dear father,” returned he, “I hope there is 
still something that will give you an interval of satisfaction; 
for I have a letter from my brother George.” — “What of 
him, child?” interrupted I; “does he know of our misery? 
I hope my boy is exempt from any part of what his wretched 
family suffers? ” — “Yes, sir,” returned he, “he is perfectly 
gay, cheerful, and happy. His letter brings nothing but good 
news; he is the favorite of his colonel, who promises to pro- 
cure him the very next lieutenancy that becomes vacant.” 

“And are you sure of all this?” cried my wife. “Are 
you sure that nothing ill has befallen my boy ? ” — “ Nothing, 
indeed, madam,” returned my son; “you shall see the letter, 
which will give you the highest pleasure; and if anything can 
procure you comfort, I am sure that will.” — “But are you 
sure,” still repeated she, “that the letter is from himself, 
and that he is really so happy?” — “Yes, madam,” replied 
he, “it is certainly his, and he will one day be the credit and 
the support of our family.” — “Then I thank Providence,” 
cried she, “ that my last letter to him has miscarried. Yes, 
my dear,” continued she, turning to me, “ I will now confess, 
that though the hand of Heaven is sore upon us in other 


156 


THE YICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


instances, it has been favorable here. By the last letter I 
wrote to my son, which was in the bitterness of anger, I 
desired him upon his mother’s blessing, and if he had the 
heart of a man, to see justice done his father and sister, and 
avenge our cause. But thanks be to Him that directs all 
things, it has miscarried, and I am at rest.” — “ Woman,” 
cried I, “thou hast done very ill, and at another time my 
reproaches might have been more severe. Oh! what a tre- 
mendous gulf hast thou escaped, that would have buried both 
thee and him in endless ruin! Providence indeed has here 
been kinder to us than we to ourselves. It has reserved that 
son to be the father and protector of my children when I shall 
be away. How unjustly did I complain of being stripped of 
every comfort, when still I hear that he is happy, and insensi- 
ble of our afflictions; still kept in reserve to support his wid- 
owed mother, to protect his brothers and sisters. But what 
sisters has he left? he has no sisters now; they are all gone, 
robbed from me, and I am undone.” — “ Father,” interrupted 
my son, “I beg you will give me leave to read his letter, I 
know it will please you.” Upon which, with my permission, 
he read as follows : — 

Honored Sir, — I have called off my imagination a few 
moments from the pleasures that surround me, to fix it upon 
objects that are still more pleasing, the dear little fireside at 
home. My fancy draws that harmless group as listening to 
every line of this with great composure. I view those faces 
with delight which never felt the deforming hand of ambition 
or distress! But whatever your happiness may be at home, 
I am sure it will be some addition to it to hear that I am per- 
fectly pleased with my situation, and every w^ay happy here. 

Our regiment is countermanded, and is not to leave the 
kingdom. The colonel, who professes himself my friend, 
takes me with him to all companies where he is acquainted, 
and after my first visit I generally find myself received with 


TEMPORAL EVILS OR FELICITIES TRIFLING. 157 

increased respect upon repeating it. I danced last night with 

Lady G > and could I forget you know whom, I might be 

perhaps successful. But it is my fate still to remember others, 
while I am myself forgotten by most of my absent friends; 
and in this number, I fear, sir, that I must consider you; for 
I have long expected the pleasure of a letter from home, to no 
purpose. Olivia and Sophia, too, promised to write, but seem 
to have forgotten me. Tell them they are two arrant little 
baggages, and that I am this moment in a most violent pas- 
sion with them; yet still, I know not how, though I want to 
bluster a little, my heart is respondent only to softer emotions. 
Then tell them, sir, that, after all, I love them affectionately, 
and be assured of my ever remaining, 

Your dutiful Son. 

“In all our miseries,’’ cried I, “what thanks have we not 
to return, that one at least of our family is exempted from 
what we suffer! Heaven be his guard, and keep my boy thus 
happy, to be the supporter of his widowed mother, and the 
father of these two babes, which is all the patrimony I can 
now bequeath him ! May he keep their innocence from the 
temptations of want, and be their conductor in the paths of 
honor!” I had scarce said these words, when a noise like 
that of a tumult seemed to proceed from the prison below; it 
died away soon after, and a clanking of fetters was heard 
along the passage that led to my apartment. The keeper of 
the prison entered, holding a man all bloody, wounded, and 
fettered with the heaviest irons . 1 I looked with compassion 
on the wretch as he approached me, but with horror when I 
found it was my own son. — “ My George! my George! and do 
I behold thee thus? Wounded — fettered! Is this thy happi- 
ness ? is this the manner you return to me ? Oh, that this 
sight could break my heart at once, and let me die! ” 

“ Where, sir, is your fortitude ? ” returned my son with an 

1 It will be remembered that the prison was for criminals as well as debtors. 


158 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


intrepid voice. “I must suffer; my life is forfeited and let 
them take it. It is my last happiness, that I have committed 
no murder, though I have lost all hopes of pardon.” 

I tried to restrain my passions for a few minutes in silence, 
but I thought I should have died with the effort. “ Oh, my 
boy, my heart weeps to behold thee thus, and I cannot, can- 
not help it. In the moment that I thought thee blest, and 
prayed for thy safety, to behold thee thus again! Chained, 
wounded! And yet the death of the youthful is happy. But 
I am old, a very old man, and have lived to see this day! To 
see my children all untimely falling about me, while I con- 
tinue a wretched survivor in the midst of ruin! May all the 
curses that ever sunk a soul fall heavy upon the murderer of 
my children! May he live, like me, to see ” 

“Hold, sir,” replied my son, “or I shall blush for thee. 
How, sir, forgetful of your age, your holy calling, thus to 
arrogate the justice of Heaven, and fling those curses upward 
that must soon descend to crush thy own gray head with 
destruction! Ho, sir, let it be your care now to fit me for 
that vile death I must shortly suffer; to arm me with hope 
and resolution; to give me courage to drink of that bitterness 
which must shortly be my portion.” 

“ My child, you must not die: I am sure no offence of thine 
can deserve so vile a punishment. My George could never be 
guilty of any crime to make his ancestors ashamed of him.” 

“ Mine, sir,” returned my son, “is, I fear, an unpardon- 
able one. I have sent a challenge, and that is death by a late 
Act of Parliament. When I received my mother’s letter from 
home, I immediately came down, determined to punish the 
betrayer of our honor, and sent him an order to meet me , 1 
which he answered, not in person, but by his despatching four 
of his domestics to seize me. I wounded one, but the rest 
made me their prisoner. The coward is determined to put 
the law in execution against me; the proofs are undeniable; 


1 in a duel. 


EQUAL DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE DEMONSTRATED. 159 


and as I am the first transgressor npon the statute/ I see no 
hopes of pardon. But you have often charmed me with the 
lessons of fortitude; let me now, sir, find them in your 
example.” 

“ And, my son, you shall find them. I am now raised above 
this world, and all the pleasures it can produce. From this 
moment I break from my heart all the ties that held it down 
to earth, and will prepare to fit us both for eternity. Yes, 
my son, I will point out the way, and my soul shall guide 
yours in the ascent, for we will take our flight together. I 
now see and am convinced you can expect no pardon here; 
and I can only exhort you to seek it at that greatest tribunal 
where we both shall shortly answer. But let us not be nig- 
gardly in our exhortation, but let all our fellow-prisoners have 
a share. Good jailer, let them be permitted to stand here 
while I attempt to improve them.” Thus saying, I made an 
effort to rise from my straw, but wanted strength, and was 
able only to recline against the wall. The prisoners assembled 
according to my directions, for they loved to hear my counsel; 
my son and his mother supported me on either side; I looked 
and saw that none were wanting, and then addressed them 
with the following exhortation. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE EQUAL DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE DEMONSTRATED WITH 
REGARD TO THE HAPPY AND THE MISERABLE HERE BELOW. 
THAT FROM THE NATURE OF PLEASURE AND PAIN, THE 
WRETCHED MUST BE REPAID THE BALANCE OF THEIR SUF- 
FERINGS IN THE LIFE HEREAFTER. 

My friends, my children, and fellow-sufferers, when I re- 
flect on the distribution of good and evil here below, I find 
that much has been given man to enjoy, yet still more to 

1 It would seem that his case was the first that had come up under the law. 


160 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


suffer. Though we should examine the whole world, we shall 
not find one man so happy as to have nothing left to wish for; 
but we daily see thousands, who, by suicide, show us they 
have nothing left to hope. In this life, then, it appears that 
we cannot be entirely blest, but yet we may be completely 
miserable. 

Why man should thus feel pain; why our wretchedness 
should be requisite in the formation of universal felicity; 
why, when all other systems are made perfect only by the 
perfection of their subordinate parts, the great system should 
require for its perfection parts that are not only subordinate 
to others, but imperfect in themselves, — these are questions 
that never can be explained, and might be useless if known. 
On this subject. Providence has thought fit to elude our curi- 
osity, satisfied with granting us motives to consolation. 

In this situation man has called in the friendly assistance 
of philosophy, and Heaven, seeing the incapacity of that to 
console him, has given him the aid of religion. The consola- 
tions of philosophy are very amusing, but often fallacious. It 
tells us that life is filled with comforts, if we will but enjoy 
them; and, on. the other hand, that though we unavoidably 
have miseries here, life is short, and they will soon be over. 
Thus do these consolations destroy each other; for if life is 
a place of comfort, its shortness must be misery, and if it be 
long, our griefs are protracted. Thus philosophy is weak; 
but religion comforts in a higher strain. Man is here, it tells 
us, fitting up his mind, and preparing it for another abode. 
When the good man leaves the body and is all a glorious mind, 
he will find he has been making himself a heaven of happiness 
here; while the wretch that has been maimed and contami- 
nated by his vices shrinks from his body with terror, and finds 
that he has anticipated the vengeance of Heaven. To religion, 
then, we must hold in every circumstance of life for our truest 
comfort; for if already we are happy, it is a pleasure to think 
that we can make that happiness unending; and if we are 


EQUAL DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE DEMONSTRATED. 161 

miserable, it is very consoling to think that there is a place of 
rest. Thus, to the fortunate, religion holds out a continuance 
of bliss; to the wretched, a change from pain. 

But though religion is very kind to all men, it has promised 
peculiar 1 reward to the unhappy; the sick, the naked, the 
houseless, the heavy-laden, and the prisoner have ever most 
frequent promises in our sacred law. The author of our 
religion everywhere professes himself the wretch’s friend, 
and, unlike the false ones of this world, bestows all his caresses 
upon the forlorn. The unthinking have censured this as par- 
tiality, as a preference without merit to deserve it. But they 
never reflect that it is not in the power even of Heaven itself 
to make the offer of unceasing felicity as great a gift to the 
happy as to the miserable. To the first, eternity is but a 
single blessing, since at most it but increases what they already 
possess. To the latter, it is a double advantage; for it dimin- 
ishes their pain here, and rewards them with heavenly bliss 
hereafter. 

But Providence is in another respect kinder to the poor than 
the rich; for as it thus makes the life after death more desira- 
ble, so it smooths the passage there. The wretched have long 
familiarity with every face of terror. The man of sorrows 
lays himself quietly down; he has no possessions to regret, 
and but few ties to stop his departure: he feels only nature’s 
pang in the final separation, and this is no way greater than 
he has often fainted under before : for after a certain degree 
of pain, every new breach that death opens in the constitu- 
tion, nature kindly covers with insensibility. 

Thus Providence has given the wretched two advantages 
over the happy in this life — greater felicity in dying, and in 
heaven all that superiority of pleasure which arises from con- 
trasted enjoyment. And this superiority, my friends, is no 
small advantage, and seems to be one of the pleasures of the 
poor man in the parable ; 2 for though he was already in 

i especial. 2 Lazarus ? Goldsmith perhaps had Luke xvi. 25 in mind. 

11 


162 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


heaven, and felt all the raptures it could give, yet it was men- 
tioned as an addition to his happiness, that he had once 
been wretched, and now was comforted; that he had known 
what it was to be miserable, and now felt what it was to be 
happy. 

Thus, my friends, you see religion does what philosophy 
could never do : it shows the equal dealings of Heaven to the 
happy and the unhappy, and levels all human enjoyments to 
nearly the same standard. It gives to both rich and poor the 
same happiness hereafter, and equal hopes to aspire after it; 
but if the rich have the advantage of enjoying pleasure here, 
the poor have the endless satisfaction of knowing what it was 
once to be miserable, when crowned with endless felicity here- 
after; and even though this should be called a small advan- 
tage, yet being an eternal one, it must make up by duration 
what the temporal happiness of the great may have exceeded 
by intenseness. 

These are, therefore, the consolations which the wretched 
have peculiar to themselves, and in which they are above the 
rest of mankind; in other respects, they are below them. 
They who would know the miseries of the poor must see life 
and endure it. To declaim on the temporal advantages they 
enjoy is only repeating what none either believe or practise. 
The men who have the necessaries of living are not poor, and 
they who want them must be miserable. Yes, my friends, we 
must be miserable. No vain efforts of a refined imagination 
can soothe the wants of nature, can give elastic sweetness to 
the dank vapor of a dungeon, or ease the throbbings of a woe- 
worn heart. Let the philosopher from his couch of softness 
tell us that we can resist all these. Alas! the effort by which 
we resist them is still the greatest pain. Death is slight, and 
any man may sustain it; but torments are dreadful, and these 
no man can endure. 

To us, then, my friends, the promises of happiness in 
heaven should be peculiarly dear ; for if our reward be in this 


EQUAL DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE DEMONSTRATED. 168 


life alone, we are then indeed of all men the most miserable . 1 
When I look round these gloomy walls, made to terrify as well 
as to confine ns; this light, that only serves to show the hor- 
rors of the place; those shackles that tyranny has imposed, 
or crime made necessary; when I survey these emaciated looks, 
and hear those groans, oh! my friends, what a glorious ex- 
change would Heaven be for these. To fly through regions 
unconfined as air, to bask in the sunshine of eternal bliss, to 
carol over endless hymns of praise, to have no master to 
threaten or insult us, but the form of Goodness himself for- 
ever in our eyes — when I think of these things, death becomes 
the messenger of very glad tidings; when I think of these 
things, his sharpest arrow becomes the staff of my support; 
when I think of these things, what is there in life worth hav- 
ing ? when I think of these things, what is there that should 
not be spurned away? Kings in their palaces should groan 
for such advantages; but we, humbled as we are, should yearn 
for them. 

And shall these things be ours ? Ours they will certainly 
be if we but try for them; and, what is a comfort, we are shut 
out from many temptations that would retard our pursuit. 
Only let us try for them, and they will certainly be ours; and, 
what is still a comfort, shortly too; for if we look back on 
past life, it appears but a very short span, and whatever we 
may think of the rest of life, it will yet be found of less dura- 
tion; as we grow older, the days seem to grow shorter, and 
our intimacy with time ever lessens the perception of his stay. 
Then let us take comfort now, for we shall soon be at our 
journey’s end; we shall soon lay down the heavy burden laid 
by Heaven upon us; and though death, the only friend of the 
wretched, for a little while mocks the weary traveller with the 
view, and like his horizon still flies before him ; yet the time 
will certainly and shortly come when we shall cease from our 
toil; when the luxurious great ones of the world shall no more 

1 Suggested, probably, by I Cor. xv. 19. 


164 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


tread us to the earth; when we shall think with pleasure on 
our sufferings below; when we shall he surrounded with our 
friends, or such as deserved our friendship; when our bliss 
shall be unutterable, and still, to crown all, unending. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. LET US BE INFLEX- 
IBLE, AND FORTUNE WILL AT LAST CHANGE IN OUR 
FAVOR. 

When I had thus finished, and my audience was retired, 
the jailer, who was one of the most humane 1 of his profes- 
sion, hoped I would not be displeased, as what he did was but 
his duty, observing that he must be obliged to remove my son 
into a stronger cell, but that he should be permitted to revisit 
me every morning. I thanked him for his clemency, and 
grasping my boy's hand, bade him farewell, and be mindful 
of the great duty that was before him. 

I again, therefore, laid me down, and one of my little ones 
sat by my bedside reading, when Mr. Jenkinson, entering, 
informed me that there was news of my daughter ; for that 
she was seen by a person about two hours before in a strange 
gentleman's company ; and that they had stopped at a neigh- 
boring village for refreshment, and seemed as if returning 
to town. He had scarce delivered this news when the jailer 
came with looks of haste and pleasure to inform me that my 
daughter was found. Moses came running in a moment 
later, crying out that his sister Sophy was below, and coming 
up with our old friend Mr. Burchell. 

Just as he delivered this news, my dearest girl entered, 
and with looks almost wild with pleasure, ran to kiss me in a 
transport of affection. Her mother's tears and silence also 
showed her pleasure. “Here, papa," cried the charming 

1 tender-hearted : see note, p. 147. 


HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. 


165 


girl, “here is the brave man to whom I owe my delivery ; to 
this gentleman’s intrepidity I am indebted for my happiness 
and safety — ” A kiss from Mr. Burchell, whose pleasure 
seemed even greater than hers, interrupted what she was 
going to add. 

“Ah, Mr. Burchell,” cried I, “this is hut a wretched 
habitation you now find us in ; and we are now very differ- 
ent from what you last saw us. You were ever our friend ; 
we have long discovered our errors with regard to you, and 
repented of our ingratitude. After the vile usage you then 
received at my hands, I am almost ashamed to behold your 
face ; yet I hope you’ll forgive me, as I was deceived by a 
base, ungenerous wretch, who, under the mask of friendship, 
has uiidone me.” 

“It is impossible,” cried Mr. Burchell, “that I should 
forgive you, as you never deserved my resentment. I partly 
saw your delusion then, and as it was out of my power to 
restrain, I could only pity it.” 

“It was ever my conjecture,” cried I, “that your mind 
was noble, but now I find it so. But tell me, my dear child, 
how thou hast been relieved, or who the ruffians were who 
carried thee away.” 

“Indeed, sir,” replied she, “as to the villain who brought 
me off, I am yet ignorant. For, as my mamma and I were 
walking out, he came behind us, and almost before I could 
call for help, forced me into the post-chaise, and in an in- 
stant the horses drove away. I met several on the road to 
whom I cried out for assistance, but they disregarded my 
entreaties. In the mean time the ruffian himself used every 
art to hinder me from crying out : he flattered and threat- 
ened by turns, and swore that if I continued but silent he 
intended no harm. In the meantime I had broken the can- 
vas that he had drawn up, and whom should I perceive at 
some distance but your old friend Mr. Burchell, walking 
along with his usual swiftness, with the great stick, for 


166 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


which we used so much to ridicule him. As soon as we came 
within hearing, I called out to him hj name, and entreated 
his help. I repeated my exclamations several times, upon 
which with a very loud voice he hid the postilion to stop ; 
but the hoy took no notice, but drove on with still greater 
speed. I now thought he could never overtake us, when in 
less than a minute I saw Mr. Burchell come running up by 
the side of the horses, and with one blow knock the postilion 
to the ground. The horses, when he was fallen, soon stopped 
of themselves, and the ruffian stepping out, with oaths and 
menaces drew his sword, and ordered him at his peril to re- 
tire ; but Mr. Burchell running up, shivered his sword to 
pieces, and then pursued him for near a quarter of a mile ; 
but he made his escape. I was at this time come out myself, 
willing to assist my deliverer ; but he soon returned to me in 
triumph. The postilion, who was recovered, was going to 
make his escape too ; but Mr. Burchell ordered him at his 
peril to mount again and drive back to town. Finding it 
impossible to resist, he reluctantly complied, though the 
wound he had received seemed, to me at least, to he danger- 
ous. He continued to complain of the pain as we drove 
along, so that he at last excited Mr. BurchelFs compassion, 
who at my request exchanged him for another at an inn 
where we called on our return.” 

“ Welcome, then,” cried I, “my child! and thou, her 
gallant deliverer, a thousand welcomes ! Though our cheer 
is but wretched, yet our hearts are ready to receive you. 
And now, Mr. Burchell, as you have delivered my girl, if 
you think her a recompense, she is yours ; if you can stoop 
to an alliance with a family so poor as mine, take her, obtain 
her consent, as I know you have her heart, and you have 
mine. And let me tell you, sir, that I give you no small 
treasure ; she has been celebrated for beauty, it is true, but 
that is not my meaning — I give you up a treasure in her 
mind.” 


HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. 


167 


“ But I suppose, sir,” cried Mr. Burchell, “that you are 
apprised of my circumstances, and of my incapacity to sup- 
port her as she deserves ? ” 

“If your present objections,” replied I, “be meant as an 
evasion of my offer, I desist ; hut I know no man so worthy 
to deserve her as you ; and if I could give her thousands, 
and thousands sought her from me, yet my honest brave 
Burchell should be my dearest 1 choice.” 

To all this his silence alone seemed to give a mortifying 
refusal, and without the least reply to my offer, he demanded 
if he could not be furnished with refreshments from the next 
inn ; to which being answered in the affirmative, he ordered 
them to send in the best dinner that could be provided upon 
such short notice. He bespoke also a dozen of their best 
wine, and some cordials for me ; adding, with a smile, that 
he would stretch a little for once, and, though in a prison, 
asserted he was never better disposed to be merry. The waiter 
soon made his appearance, with preparations for dinner ; a 
table was lent us by the jailer, who seemed remarkably 
assiduous ; the wine was disposed in order, and two very 
well-dressed dishes were brought in. 

My daughter had not yet heard of her poor brother's 
melancholy situation, and we all seemed unwilling to damp 
her cheerfulness by the relation. But it was in vain that I 
attempted to appear cheerful ; the circumstances of my un- 
fortunate son broke through all efforts to dissemble, so that 
I was at last obliged to damp our mirth by relating his mis- 
fortunes, and wishing that he might be permitted to share 
with us in this little interval of satisfaction. After my 
guests were recovered from the consternation my account 
had produced, I requested also that Mr. Jenkinson, a fellow- 
prisoner, might be admitted, and the jailer granted my 
request with an air of unusual submission. The clanking of 
my son's irons was no sooner heard along the passage, than 

1 Note the use of the word. 


168 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


his sister ran impatiently to meet him ; while Mr. Burchell, 
in the mean time, asked me if my son’s name was George ; 
to which replying in the affirmative, he still continued silent. 
As soon as my boy entered the room, I could perceive he 
regarded Mr. Burchell with a look of astonishment and 
reverence. 

“ Come on,” cried I, “my son ; though we are fallen very 
low, yet Providence has been pleased to grant us some small 
relaxation from pain. Thy sister is restored to us, and there 
is her deliverer. To that brave man it is that I am indebted 
for yet having a daughter ; give him, my hoy, the hand of 
friendship ; he deserves our warmest gratitude.” 

My son seemed all this while regardless of what I said, 
and still continued fixed at respectful distance. “My dear 
brother,” cried his sister, “ why don’t you thank my good 
deliverer ? the brave should ever love each other.” 

He still continued his silence and astonishment, till our 
guest at last perceived himself to be known, and, assum- 
ing all his native dignity, desired my son to come forward. 
Never before had I seen anything so truly majestic as the 
air he assumed upon this occasion. The greatest object in 
the universe, says a certain philosopher , 1 is a good man 
struggling with adversity ; yet there is still a greater, which 
is the good man that comes to relieve it. After he had re- 
garded my son for some time with a superior air, “ I again 
find,” said he, “ unthinking boy, that the same crime ” — 
But here he was interrupted by one of the jailer’s servants, 
who came to inform us that a person of distinction, who 
had driven into town with a chariot and several attendants, 
sent his respects to the gentleman that was with us, and 
begged to know when he should think proper to he waited 
upon. “Bid the fellow wait,” cried our guest, “till I shall 
have leisure to receive him ; ” and then turning to my son, 
“ I again find, sir,” proceeded he, “ that you are guilty of 


1 Seneca. 


HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. 


169 


the same offence for which you once had my reproof, and 
for which the law is now preparing its justest punishments. 
You imagine, perhaps, that a contempt for your own life 
gives you a right to take that of another : but where, sir, is 
the difference between a duellist who hazards a life of no 
value, and the murderer who acts with greater security ? Is 
it any diminution of the gamester’s fraud when he alleges 
that he has staked a counter ? ” 

“ Alas, sir,” cried I, “whoever you are, pity the poor mis- 
guided creature ; for what he has done was in obedience to a 
deluded mother, who, in the bitterness of her resentment, 
required him, upon her blessing, to avenge her quarrel. 
Here, sir, is the letter, which will serve to convince you of 
her imprudence and diminish his guilt.” 

He took the letter and hastily read it over. “ This,” says 
he, “though not a perfect excuse, is such a palliation of his 
fault as induces me to forgive him. And now, sir,” con- 
tinued he, kindly taking my son by the hand, “I see you 
are surprised at finding me here ; but I have often visited 
prisons upon occasions less interesting. I am now come to 
see justice done a worthy man, for whom I have the most 
sincere esteem. I have long been a disguised spectator of 
thy father’s benevolence. I have at his little dwelling en- 
joyed respect uncontaminated by flattery ; and have received 
that happiness that courts could not give, from the amusing 
simplicity round his fireside. My nephew has been apprised 
of my intentions of coming here, and I find is arrived. It 
would be wronging him and you to condemn him without 
examination ; if there be injury, there shall he redress ; and 
this I may say without boasting, that none have ever taxed 
the injustice of Sir William Thornhill.” 

We now found the personage whom we had so long enter- 
tained as a harmless amusing companion was no other than 
the celebrated Sir William Thornhill, to whose virtues and 
singularities scarce any were strangers. The poor Mr. Bur- 


170 


THE YICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


chell was in reality a man of large fortune and great interest, 
to whom senates listened with applause, and whom party 
heard with conviction ; who was the friend of his country, 
but loyal to his king. My poor wife, recollecting her 
former familiarity, seemed to shrink with apprehension ; 
but Sophia, who a few moments before thought him her 
own, now perceiving the immense distance to which he was 
removed by fortune, was unable to conceal her tears. 

“Ah, sir,” cried my wife with a piteous aspect, “how is it 
possible that I can ever have your forgiveness ? The slights 
you received from me the last time I had the honor of seeing 
you at our house, and the jokes which I audaciously threw 
out — these jokes, sir, I fear, can never he forgiven.” 

“My dear good lady,” returned he with a smile, “if you 
had your joke, I had my answer. Fll leave it to all the 
company if mine were not as good as yours. To say the 
truth, I know nobody whom I am disposed to be angry with 
at present but the fellow who so frightened my little girl 
here. I had not even time to examine the rascaFs person so 
as to describe him in an advertisement. Can you tell me, 
Sophia, my dear, whether you should know him again ? ” 

“Indeed, sir,” replied she, “I can't be positive ; yet now 
I recollect he had a large mark over one of his eyebrows.” — 
“I ask pardon, madam,” interrupted Jenkinson, who was 
by, “ hut be so good as to inform me if the fellow wore his 
own 1 red hair ?” — “Yes, I think so,” cried Sophia. — “And 
did your honor,” continued he, turning to Sir William, 
“observe the length of his legs?” — “I can't he sure of 
their length,” cried the Baronet, “but I am convinced of 
their swiftness ; for he outran me, which is what I thought 
few men in the kingdom could have done.” — “Please your 
honor,” cried Jenkinson, “I know the man : it is certainly 
the same ; the best runner in England ; he has beaten Pin- 
wire of Newcastle ; Timothy Baxter is his name. I know 

1 i.e he did not wear a wig. 


HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. 


171 


him perfectly, and the very place of his retreat this moment. 
If your Honor will bid Mr. Jailer let two of his men go with 
me. I'll engage to produce him to you in an hour at farthest." 
Upon this the jailer was called, who instantly appearing, Sir 
William demanded if he knew him. “ Yes, please your 
honor," replied the jailer, “ I know Sir William Thornhill 
well, and everybody that knows anything of him will desire 
to know more of him." — “Well, then," said the Baronet, 
“ my request is that you will permit this man and two of 
your servants to go upon a message by my authority; and as 
I am in the commission of the peace , 1 I undertake to secure 
you." — “Your promise is sufficient," replied the other, “and 
you may at a moment's warning send them over England 
whenever your honor thinks fit." 

In pursuance of the jailer's compliance, Jenkinson was de- 
spatched in search of Timothy Baxter, while we were amused 
with the assiduity of our youngest boy Bill, who had just 
come in and climbed up to Sir William's neck in order to 
kiss him. His mother was immediately going to chastise 
his familiarity, but the worthy man prevented her ; and 
taking the child, all ragged as he was, upon his knee, 
“What, Bill, you chubby rogue," cried he, “do you remem- 
ber your old friend Burchell ? and Dick too, my honest 
veteran, are you here ? you shall find I have not forgot you." 
So saying, he gave each a large piece of gingerbread, which 
the poor fellows eat very heartily, as they had got that 
morning but a very scanty breakfast. 

We now sat down to dinner, which was almost cold; but 
previously, my arm still continuing painful, Sir William 
wrote a prescription, for he had made the study of physic 
his amusement, and was more than moderately skilled in 
the profession ; this being sent to an apothecary who lived 
in the place, my arm was dressed, and I found almost in- 
stantaneous relief. We were waited upon .at dinner by the 

1 a justice of the peace. 


172 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


jailer himself,, who was willing 1 to do our guest all the honor 
in his power. But before we had well dined, another mes- 
sage was brought from his nephew, desiring permission to 
appear in order to vindicate his innocence and honor ; with 
which request the Baronet complied, and desired Mr. Thorn- 
hill to he introduced. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

FORMER BENEVOLENCE NOW REPAID WITH UNEXPECTED 
INTEREST. 

Mr. Thornhill made his entrance with a smile, which 
he seldom wanted, and was going to embrace his uncle, 
which the other repulsed with an air of disdain. 

“No fawning, sir, at present,” cried the Baronet, with a 
look of severity ; “the only way to my heart is by the road 
of honor ; hut here I only see complicated instances of false- 
hood, cowardice, and oppression. How is it, sir, that this 
poor man, for whom I know you professed a friendship, is 
used thus hardly ? His daughter deceived as a recompense 
for his hospitality, and he himself thrown into prison, per- 
haps but for resenting the insult ? His son, too, whom you 
feared to face as a man ” 

“Is it possible, sir,” interrupted his nephew, “that my 
uncle could object that as a crime which his repeated in- 
structions alone have persuaded me to avoid ? ” 

“Your rebuke,” cried Sir William, “is just; you have 
acted in this instance prudently and well, though not quite 
as your father would have done : my brother, indeed, was 
the soul of honor; but thou — Yes, you have acted, in this 
instance, perfectly right, and it has my warmest approba- 
tion.” 

“And I hope,” said his nephew, “that the rest of my con- 


1 desirous. 


FORMER BENEVOLENCE NOW REPAID. 


173 


duct will not be found to deserve censure. I appeared, sir, 
with this gentleman's daughter at some places of public 
amusement : thus, what was levity, scandal called by a 
harsher name. I waited on her father in person, willing to 
clear the thing to his satisfaction, and he received me only 
with insult and abuse. As for the rest, with regard to his 
being here, my attorney and steward can best inform you, as 
I commit the management of business entirely to them. If 
he has contracted debts, and is unwilling, or even unable to 
pay them, it is their business to proceed in this manner ; 
and I see no hardship or injustice in pursuing the most legal 
means of redress." 

“ If this," cried Sir William, “ be as you have stated it, 
there is nothing unpardonable in your offence ; and though 
your conduct might have been more generous in not suffer- 
ing this gentleman to be oppressed by subordinate tyranny, 
yet it has been at least equitable." 

“ He cannot contradict a single particular," replied the 
Squire ; “ I defy him to do so ; and several of my servants 
are ready to attest what I say. Thus, sir," continued he, 
finding that I was silent, for in fact I could not contradict 
him, “ thus, sir, my own innocence is vindicated ; but though 
at your entreaty I am ready to forgive this gentleman every 
other offence, yet his attempts to lessen me in your esteem 
excite a resentment that I cannot govern ; and this, too, at 
a time when his son was actually preparing to take away 
my life ; this, I say, was such guilt that I am determined to 
let the law take its course. I have here the challenge that 
was sent me, and two witnesses to prove it : and even though 
my uncle himself should dissuade me, which I know he will 
not, yet I will see public justice done, and he shall suffer 
for it." 

“Thou monster," cried my wife, “hast thou not had 
vengeance enough already, but must my poor boy feel thy 
cruelty ? I hope that good Sir William will protect us ; for 


174 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


my son is as innocent as a child ; I am sure he is, and never 
did harm to man.” 

“ Madam,” replied the good man, “your wishes for his 
safety are not greater than mine ; but I am sorry to find his 
guilt too plain ; and if my nephew persists — ” But the 
appearance of Jenkinson and the jailer’s two servants now 
called off our attention, who entered, hauling in a tall man, 
very genteelly dressed, and answering the description already 
given of the ruffian who had carried off my daughter. 

“ Here,” cried Jenkinson, pulling him in, “ here we have 
him ; and if ever there was a candidate for Tyburn , 1 this is 
one.” 

The moment Mr. Thornhill perceived the prisoner, and 
Jenkinson who had him in custody, he seemed to shrink 
back with terror. His face became pale with conscious guilt, 
and he would have withdrawn ; but Jenkinson, who per- 
ceived his design, stopped him. — “What, Squire,” cried he, 
“are you ashamed of your two old acquaintances, Jenkinson 
and Baxter ? But this is the way that all great men forget 
their friends, though I am resolved we will not forget you. 
Our prisoner, please your honor,” continued he, turning to Sir 
William, “has already confessed all. This is the gentleman 
reported to be so dangerously wounded. He declares that it 
was Mr. Thornhill who first put him upon this affair ; that he 
gave him the clothes he now wears, to appear like a gentle- 
man, and furnished him with the post-chaise. The plan was 
laid between them, that he should carry off the young lady to 
a place of safety, and that there he should threaten and terrify 
her ; hut Mr. Thornhill was to come in, in the mean time, 
as if by accident, to her rescue ; and that they should fight 
awhile, and then he was to run off — by which Mr. Thornhill 
would have the better opportunity of gaining her affections 
himself, under the character of her defender.” 

Sir William remembered the coat to have been frequently 

1 the place where people were hanged. 


FORMER BENEVOLENCE NOW REPAID. 175 

worn by his nephew, and all the rest the prisoner himself 
confirmed by a more circumstantial account ; concluding, 
that Mr. Thornhill had often declared to him that he was in 
love with both sisters at the same time. 

“ Heavens!” cried Sir William, “what a viper have I 
been fostering in my bosom ! And so fond of public justice, 
too, as he .seemed to be ! But he shall have it ! secure him, 
Mr. Jailer ! — yet, hold ; I fear there is not legal evidence to 
detain him.” 

Upon this, Mr. Thornhill, with the utmost humility, en- 
treated that two such abandoned wretches might not be 
admitted as evidences against him, but that his servants 
should be examined. “ Your servants ! ” replied Sir William ; 
“ wretch ! call them yours no longer ; but come, let us hear 
what those fellows have to say ; let his butler be called.” 

When the butler was introduced, he soon perceived by his 
former master's looks that all his power was now over. “ Tell 
me,” cried Sir William, sternly, “'have you ever seen your 
master, and that fellow dressed up in his clothes, in company 
together ? ” — “ Yes, please your honor,” cried the butler ; “ a 
thousand times.” — “How,” interrupted young Mr. Thorn- 
hill, “this to my face!” — “Yes,” replied the butler, “or 
to any man's face. To tell you a truth. Master Thornhill, 
I never either loved you or liked you, and I don't care if I 
tell you now a piece of my mind. ” — “ Now, then,” cried 
Jenkinson, “tell his honor whether you know anything of 
me.” — “ I can't say,” replied the butler, “ that I know much 
good of you. The night that gentleman's daughter was de- 
luded to our house, you were one of them.” — “So, then,” 
cried Sir William, “ I find you have brought a very fine wit- 
ness to prove your innocence, thou stain to humanity ! to 
associate with such wretches ! But,” continuing his exami- 
nation, “you tell me, Mr. Butler, that this was the person 
who brought him this old gentleman's daughter.” — “No, 
please your honor,” replied the butler, “ he did not bring 


176 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


her, for the Squire himself undertook that business ; but 
he brought the priest that pretended to marry them.” — “It 
is but too true,” cried Jenkinson, “ I cannot deny it ; that 
was the employment assigned to me, and I confess it to my 
confusion.” 

“ Good heavens ! ” exclaimed the Baronet, “ how every 
new discovery of his villainy alarms me ! All his guilt is 
now too plain, and I find his present prosecution was dic- 
tated by tyranny, cowardice, and revenge. At my request, 
Mr. Jailer, set this young officer, now your prisoner, free, and 
trust to me for the consequences. Fll make it my business 
to set the affair in a proper light to my friend the magis- 
trate who has committed him. But where is the unfortu- 
nate young lady herself ? Let her appear to confront this 
wretch. Entreat her to come in. Where is she ? ” 

“Ah, sir,” said I, “that question stings me to the heart. 
I was once indeed happy in a daughter, but her miseries — ” 
Another interruption here prevented me ; for who should 
make her appearance but Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was 
next day to have been married to Mr. Thornhill. Nothing 
could equal her surprise at seeing Sir William and his nephew 
here before her, for her arrival was quite accidental. It 
happened that she and the old gentleman, her father, were 
passing through the town on their way to her aunt's, who 
had insisted that her nuptials with Mr. Thornhill should be 
consummated at her house ; but stopping for refreshment, 
they put up at an inn at the other end of the town. It was 
there, from the window, that the young lady happened to 
observe one of my little boys playing in the street, and 
instantly sending a footman to bring the child to her, she 
learnt from him some account of our misfortunes, but was 
still kept ignorant of young Mr. Thornhill's being the cause. 
Though her father made several remonstrances on the im- 
propriety of going to a prison to visit us, yet they were 
ineffectual ; she desired the child to conduct her, which he 


FORMER BENEVOLENCE NOW REPAID. 


177 


did, and it was thus she surprised us at a juncture so 
unexpected. 

Nor can I go on without a reflection on those accidental 
meetings, which, though they happen every day, seldom 
excite our surprise hut upon some extraordinary occasion . 1 
To what a fortuitous concurrence do we not owe every 
pleasure and convenience of our lives ! How many seeming 
accidents must unite before we can be clothed or fed ! The 
peasant must be disposed to labor, the shower must fall, the 
wind fill the merchant's sail, or numbers must want the usual 
supply. 

We all continued silent for some moments, while my 
charming pupil, which was the name I generally gave this 
young lady , 2 united in her looks compassion and astonish- 
ment, which gave new finishings to her beauty. “ Indeed, 
my dear Mr. Thornhill,” cried she to the Squire, who she 
supposed was come here to succor, and not to oppress us, “ I 
take it a little unkindly that you should come here without 
me, or never inform me of the situation of a family so dear 
to us both ; you know I should take as much pleasure in con- 
tributing to the relief of my reverend old master here, whom 
I shall ever esteem, as you can. But I find that, like your 
uncle, you take a pleasure in doing good in secret.” 

“ He find pleasure in doing good ! ” cried Sir William, in- 
terrupting her. “ No, my dear, his pleasures are as base as 
he is. You see in him, madam, as complete a villain as ever 
disgraced humanity. A wretch, who, after having deluded 
this poor man’s daughter, after plotting against the inno- 
cence of her sister, has thrown the father into prison, and the 
eldest son into fetters, because he had courage to face her 
betrayer. And give me leave, madam, now to congratulate 
you upon an escape from such a monster.” 

“ Oh, goodness,” cried the lovely girl, “how have I been 

1 This accounts, in a way, for a truly remarkable series of circumstances. 

2 Miss Wilmot. 

12 


178 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


deceived ! Mr. Thornhill informed me for certain, that this 
gentleman’s eldest son. Captain Primrose, was gone off to 
America with his new-married lady.” 

“ My sweetest miss,” cried my wife, “ he has told you 
nothing but falsehoods. My son George never left the king- 
dom, nor never was married. Though yon have forsaken 
him, he has always loved yon too well to think of anybody 
else ; and I have heard him say he would die a bachelor for 
yonr sake.” She then proceeded to expatiate upon the sin- 
cerity of her son’s passion ; she set his duel with Mr. Thorn- 
hill in a proper light ; from thence she made a rapid digres- 
sion to the Squire’s pretended marriages, and ended with a 
most insulting picture of his cowardice. 

“ Good Heavens ! ” cried Miss Wilmot, “ how very near 
have I been to the brink of ruin ! But how great is my 
pleasure to have escaped it ! Ten thousand falsehoods has 
this gentleman told me. He had at last art enough to per- 
suade me that my promise to the only man I esteemed was 
no longer binding, since he had been unfaithful. By his 
falsehoods I was taught to detest one equally brave and gen- 
erous.” 

But by this time my son was freed from the incumbrances 
of justice. Mr. Jenkinson, also, who had acted as his valet 
de chambre, had dressed up his hair, and furnished him with 
whatever was necessary to make a genteel appearance. He 
now, therefore, entered, handsomely dressed in his regimen- 
tals ; and without vanity (for I am above it), he appeared as 
handsome a fellow as ever wore a military dress. As he en- 
tered, he made Miss Wilmot a modest and distant how, for 
he was not as yet acquainted with the change which the 
eloquence of his mother had wrought in his favor. But no 
decorums could restrain the impatience of his blushing mis- 
tress to be forgiven. Her tears, her looks, all contributed to 
discover the real sensations of her heart for having forgotten 
her former promise, and having suffered herself to be deluded 


FORMER BENEVOLENCE NOW REPAID. 


179 


by an impostor. My son appeared amazed at her condescen- 
sion, and could scarcely believe it real. 

“ Sure, madam,” cried he, “ this is but delusion ! I can 
never have merited this ! To be blessed thus is to be too 
happy.” — “No, sir,” replied she; “I have been deceived, 
basely deceived, else nothing could have ever made me unjust 
to my promise. You know my friendship, you have long 
known it ; but forget what I have done, and as you once had 
my warmest vows of constancy, you shall now have them 
repeated ; and be assured, that if your Arabella cannot be 
yours, she shall never be another's.” — “And no other's you 
shall be,” cried Sir William, “if I have any influence with 
your father.” 

This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who immediately 
flew to the inn where the old gentleman was, to inform him 
of every circumstance that had happened. But in the mean 
time the Squire, perceiving that he was on every side undone, 
now finding that no hopes were left from flattery or dissimu- 
lation, concluded that his wisest way would be to turn and 
face his pursuers. Thus, laying aside all shame, he appeared 
the open hardy villain. — “I find then,” cried he, “that I am 
to expect no justice here ; but I am resolved it shall be done 
me. You shall know, sir,” turning to Sir William, “ I am 
no longer a poor dependent upon your favors ; I scorn them. 
Nothing can keep Miss Wilmot's fortune from me, which, I 
thank her father's assiduty, is pretty large. The articles 1 and 
a bond for her fortune are signed, and safe in my possession. 
It was her fortune, not her person, that induced me to wish 
for this match ; and possessed of the one, let who will take 
the other.” 

This was an alarming blow. Sir William was sensible of 
the justice of his claims, for he had been instrumental in 
drawing up the marriage articles himself. Miss Wilmot, 
therefore, perceiving that her fortune was irretrievably lost, 

1 i.e., the agreement for settling the property which accompanied the marriage. 


180 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


turning to my son, she asked if the loss of fortune could 
lessen her value to him. “ Though fortune,” said she, “is 
out of my power, at least I have my hand to give.” 

“And that, madam,” cried her real lover, “was indeed 
all that you ever had to give ; at least all that I ever thought 
worth the acceptance. And I now protest, my Arabella, by 
all that's happy, your want of fortune this moment increases 
my pleasure, as it serves to convince my sweet girl of my 
sincerity.” 

Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little pleased 
at the danger his daughter had just escaped, and readily 
consented to a dissolution of the match. But finding that 
her fortune, which was secured to Mr. Thornhill by bond, 
would not he given up, nothing could exceed his disappoint- 
ment. He now saw that his money must all go to enrich 
one who had no fortune of his own. He could bear his being 
a rascal, but to want an equivalent to his daughter's fortune 
was wormwood. He sat, therefore, for some minutes em- 
ployed in the most mortifying speculations, till Sir William 
attempted to lessen his anxiety. — “I must confess, sir,” 
cried he, “ that your present disappointment does not en- 
tirely displease me. Your immoderate passion for wealth is 
now justly punished. But though the young lady cannot 
he rich, she has still a competence sufficient to give content. 
Here you see an honest young soldier, who is willing to take 
her without fortune : they have long loved each other ; and 
for the friendship I bear his father, my interest shall not 
be wanting for his promotion. Leave, then, that ambition 
which disappoints you, and for once admit that happiness 
which courts your acceptance.” 

“ Sir William,” replied the old gentleman, “ be assured I 
never yet forced her inclinations, nor will I now. If she 
still continues to love this young gentleman, let her have 
him with all my heart. There is still, thank Heaven, some 
fortune left, and your promise will make it something more. 


FORMER BENEVOLENCE NOW REPAID. 


181 


Only let my old friend here” (meaning me) “give me a 
promise of settling six thousand pounds upon my girl, if 
ever he should come to his fortune , 1 and I am ready this 
night to be the first to join them together.” 

As it now remained with me to make the young couple 
happy, I readily gave a promise of making the settlement 2 he 
required, which, to one who had such little expectations as 
I, was no great favor. We had now, therefore, the satisfac- 
tion of seeing them fly into each other’s arms in a transport. 
“After all my misfortunes,” cried my son George, “to he 
thus rewarded ! Sure this is more than I could ever have 
presumed to hope for. To he possessed of all that’s good, 
and after such an interval of pain ! My warmest wishes 
could never rise so high ! ” 

“Yes, my George,” returned his lovely bride, “now let 
the wretch take my fortune ; since you are happy without it, 
so am I. Oh, what an exchange have I made from the basest 
of men to the dearest, best ! Let him enjoy our fortune, I 
now can be happy even in indigence.” — “And I promise 
you,” cried the Squire, with a malicious grin, “ that I shall 
be very happy with what you despise.” — “Hold, hold, sir,” 
cried Jenkinson, “ there are two words to that bargain. As 
for that lady’s fortune, sir, you shall never touch a single 
stiver of it. Pray, your honor,” continued he to Sir Wil- 
liam, “ can the Squire have this lady’s fortune if he be mar- 
ried to another ? ” — “ How can you make such a simple de- 
mand ?” replied the Baronet ; “undoubtedly he cannot.” — 
“I am sorry for that,”£ried Jenkinson; “for as this gen- 
tleman and I have been old f ellow-sporters, I have a friendship 
for him. But I must declare, well as I love him, that his 
contract is not worth a tobacco-stopper, for he is married 
already.” — “You lie, like a rascal,” returned the Squire, 
who seemed roused by this insult ; “I never was legally 
married to any woman.” 

i the fortune which had been lost. 


a of six thousand pounds. 


182 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


“ Indeed, begging your honor's pardon/' replied the other, 
“you were ; and I hope you will show a proper return of 
friendship to your own honest Jenkinson, who brings you a 
wife ; and if the company restrains their curiosity a few 
minutes, they shall see her." So saying, he went off with 
his usual celerity, and left us all unable to form any probable 
conjecture as to his design. “Ay, let him go," cried the 
Squire ; “whatever else I may have done, I defy him there. 
I am too old now to be frightened with squibs." 

. “I am surprised," said the Baronet, “what the fellow 
can intend by this. Some low piece of humor, I suppose." — 
“Perhaps, sir," replied I, “he may have a more serious 
meaning. For when we reflect on the various schemes this 
gentleman has laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one, 
more artful than the rest, has been found able to deceive him. 
When we consider what numbers he has deceived, it would 
not surprise me if some one of them — Amazement ! Do I 
see my lost daughter ? Do I hold her ? It is, it is my life, 
my happiness. I thought thee lost, my Olivia, yet still I 
hold thee — and still shalt thou live to bless me." The 
warmest transports of the fondest lover were not greater 
than mine, when I saw him introduce my child, and held my 
daughter in my arms, whose silence only spoke her raptures. 

“And art thou returned to me, my darling," cried I, “to 
be my comfort in age ! " — “ That she is," cried Jenkinson ; 
“and make much of her, for she is your own honorable 
child. And as for you, Squire, as sure as you stand there, 
this young lady is your lawful wedded wife. And to con- 
vince you that I speak nothing but the truth, here is the 
license by which you were married together." So saying, 
he put the license into the Baronet's hands, who read it, 
and found it perfect in every respect. — “ And now, gentle- 
men," continued he, “I find you are surprised at all this ; 
but a few words will explain the difficulty. That there 
Squire of renown, for whom I have a great friendship (but 


FORMER BENEVOLENCE NOW REPAID. 


183 


that’s between ourselves), has often employed me in doing 
•odd little things for him. Among the rest, he commissioned 
me to procure him a false license and a false priest, in order 
to deceive this young lady. But as I was very much his 
friend, what did I do, but went and got a true license and a 
true priest, and married them both as fast as the cloth could 
make them. Perhaps you’ll think it was generosity that 
made me do all this. But no : to my shame I confess it, my 
only design was to keep the license, and let the Squire know 
that I could prove it upon him whenever I thought proper, 
and so make him come down whenever I wanted money. ” 
A burst of pleasure now seemed to fill the whole apartment ; 
our joy reached even to the common room, where the pris- 
oners themselves sympathized, 

And shook their chains 

In transport and rude harmony. 

Happiness expanded upon every face, and even Olivia’s 
cheek seemed flushed with pleasure. To be thus restored to 
reputation, to friends and fortune at once, was a rapture 
sufficient to stop the progress of decay, and restore former ^ 
health and vivacity. But perhaps among all, there was not 
one who felt sincerer pleasure than I. Still holding the 
dear loved child in my arms, I asked my heart if these trans- 
ports were not delusion. “ How could you,” cried I, turn- 
ing to Mr. Jenkinson, “how could you add to my miseries 
by the story of her death ? But it matters not : my pleasure 
at finding her again is more than a recompense for the pain.” 

“As to your question,” replied Jenkinson, “that is easily 
answered. I thought the only probable means of freeing 
you from prison was by submitting to the Squire, and con- 
senting to his marriage with the other young lady. But 
these you had vowed never to grant while your daughter was 
living ; there was therefore no other method to bring things 
to bear, but by persuading you that she was dead. I pre- 


184 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


vailed on your wife to join in the deceit, and we have not 
had a fit opportunity of undeceiving you till now.” 

In the whole assembly there now appeared only two faces 
that did not glow with transport. Mr. Thornhilks assurance 
had entirely forsaken him ; he now saw the gulf of infamy 
and want before him, and trembled to take the plunge. He 
therefore fell on his knees before his uncle, and in a voice of 
piercing misery implored compassion. Sir William was 
going to spurn him away, but at my request he raised him, 
and after pausing a few moments — “ Thy vices, crimes, and 
ingratitude,” cried he, “deserve no tenderness; yet thou 
shalt not be entirely forsaken — a bare competence shall be 
supplied to support the wants of life, but not its follies. 
This young lady, thy wife, shall be put in possession of a 
third part of that fortune which once was thine, and from 
her tenderness alone thou art to expect any extraordinary 
supplies for the future.” He was going to express his grati- 
tude for such kindness in a set speech ; but the Baronet 
prevented him, by bidding him not to aggravate his mean- 
ness, which was already but too apparent. He ordered him 
at the same time to be gone, and from all his former domes- 
tics to choose one, such as he should think proper, which 
was all that should be granted to attend him. 

As soon as he left us Sir William very politely stepped up 
to his new niece with a smile, and wished her joy. His ex- 
ample was followed by Miss Wilmot and her father. My 
wife, too, kissed her daughter with much affection. Sophia 
and Moses followed in turn, and even our benefactor Jenkin- 
son desired to be admitted to that honor. Our satisfaction 
seemed scarce capable of increase. Sir William, whose 
greatest pleasure was in doing good, now looked round with 
a countenance open as the sun, and saw nothing but joy 
in the looks of all, except that of my daughter Sophia, who, 
for some reasons we could not comprehend, did not seem 
perfectly satisfied. 


FORMER BENEVOLENCE NOW REPAID. 


185 


“ I think now,” cried he, with a smile, “ that all the com- 
pany except one or two seem perfectly happy. There only 
remains an act of justice for me to do. You are sensible, 
sir,” contined he, turning to me, “ of the obligations we both 
owe Mr. Jenkinson for his late assiduity in detecting a 
scoundrel. It is but just we should both reward him for it. 
Your youngest daughter. Miss Sophia, will, I am sure, make 
him very happy, and he shall have from me five hundred 
pounds as her fortune : and upon this I am sure they can 
live very comfortably together. Come, Miss Sophia, what 
say yon to this match of my making ? Will you have him ?” 
My poor girl seemed almost sinking into her mother’s arms 
at the hideous proposal. — “Have him, sir!” cried she 
faintly, “no, sir, never.” — “What!” cried he again, “not 
have Mr. Jenkinson your benefactor, a handsome young fel- 
low, with five hundred pounds, and good expectations ? ” — 
“ I beg, sir,” returned she, scarce able to speak, “ that you’ll 
desist, and not make me so very wretched.” — “Was ever 
such obstinacy known ?” cried he again, “to refuse a man 
whom the family has such infinite obligations to, who has 
preserved your sister ! What, not have him ! ” — “ No, sir, 
never,” replied she angrily; “I’d sooner die first.” — “If 
that be the case then,” cried he, “ if you will not have him — 
I think I must have you myself.” And so saying, he caught 
her to his breast with ardor. “ My loveliest, my most sen- 
sible of girls,” cried he, “ how could you ever think your 
own Burchell could deceive you, or that Sir William Thorn- 
hill could ever cease to admire a mistress that loved him for 
himself alone ? I have for some years sought for a woman 
who, a stranger to my fortune, could think that I had merit 
as a man. After having tried in vain, even amongst the pert 
and the ugly, how great at last must be my rapture to have 
made a conquest over such sense and such heavenly beauty !” 

Then turning to Jenkinson : “As I cannot, sir, part wfith 
this young lady myself, for she has taken a fancy to the cut 


186 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


of my face, all the recompense I can make is to give you her 
fortune ; and you may call upon my steward to-morrow for 
five hundred pounds." Thus we had all our compliments to 
repeat, and Lady Thornhill underwent the same round of 
ceremony that her sister had done before. In the meantime. 
Sir William’s gentleman appeared to tell us that the equi- 
pages were ready to carry us to the inn, where everything was 
prepared for our reception. My wife and I led the van, 
and left those gloomy mansions of sorrow. The generous 
Baronet ordered forty pounds to be distributed among the 
prisoners, and Mr. Wilmot, induced by his example, gave 
half that sum. We were received below by the shouts of the 
villagers, and I saw and shook by the hand two or three of 
my honest parishioners, who were among the number. They 
attended us to our inn, where a sumptuous entertainment 
was provided, and coarser provisions distributed in great 
quantities among the populace. 

After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the alterna- 
tion of pleasure and pain which they had sustained during 
the day, I asked permission to withdraw ; and leaving the 
company in the midst of their mirth, as soon as I found my- 
self alone, I poured out my heart in gratitude to the Giver 
of joy as well as of sorrow, and then slept undisturbed till 
morning. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE COHCLUSIOH. 

The next morning, as soon as I awaked, I found my eldest 
son sitting by my bedside, who came to increase my joy with 
another turn of fortune in my favor. First having released 
me from the settlement that I had made the day before in 
his favor, he let me know that my merchant , 1 who had failed 


1 See p. 8. 


THE CONCLUSION. 


187 


in town, was arrested at Antwerp, and there had given up 
effects to a much greater amount than what was due to his 
creditors. My boy's generosity pleased me almost as much 
as this unlooked-for good fortune ; but I had some doubts 
whether I ought in justice to accept his offer. While I was 
pondering upon this, Sir William entered my room, to whom 
I communicated my doubts. His opinion was, that as my 
son was already possessed of a very affluent fortune by his 
marriage, I might accept his offer without any hesitation. 
His business, however, was to inform me that he had the 
night before sent for the licenses , 1 and expected them every 
hour ; he hoped that I would not refuse my assistance in 
making all the company happy that morning. A footman 
entered while we were speaking, to tell us that the messenger 
was returned ; and as I was by this time ready, I went down, 
where I found the whole company as merry as affluence and 
innocence could make them. However, as they were now 
preparing for a very solemn ceremony, their laughter entirely 
displeased me. I told them of the grave, becoming, and 
sublime deportment they should assume upon this mystical 
occasion, and read them two homilies, and a thesis of my 
own composing, in order to prepare them. Yet they still 
seemed perfectly refractory and ungovernable. Even as we 
were going along to church, to which I led the way, all 
gravity had quite forsaken them, and I was often tempted 
to turn back in indignation. In church a new dilemma 
arose, which promised no easy solution. This was, which 
couple should be married first. My son's bride warmly in- 
sisted that Lady Thornhill (that was to be) should take the 
lead ; but this the other refused with equal ardor, protesting 
she would not be guilty of such rudeness for the world. The 
argument was supported for some time between both with 
equal obstinacy and good breeding. But as I stood all this 
time with my book ready, I was at last quite tired of the 

i the marriage licenses. 


188 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


contest ; and shutting it , — “ I perceive," cried I, “ that none 
of you have a mind to he married, and I think we had as 
good go back again ; for I suppose there will be no business 
done here to-day." This at once reduced them to reason. 
The Baronet and his lady were first married, and then my 
son and his lovely partner. 

I had previously that morning given orders that a coach 
should be sent for my honest neighbor Flamborough and his 
family ; by which means, upon our return to the inn, we had 
the pleasure of finding the two Miss Flamboroughs alighted 
before us. Mr. Jenkinson gave his hand to the eldest, and 
my son Moses led up the other (and I have since found that 
he has taken a real liking to the girl, and my consent and 
bounty he shall have, whenever he thinks proper to demand 
them). We were no sooner returned to the inn, but numbers 
of my parishioners, hearing of my success, came to con- 
gratulate me ; but among the rest were those who rose to 
rescue me, and whom I formerly rebuked with such sharp- 
ness. I told the story to Sir William, my son-in-law, who 
went out and reproved them with great severity ; but finding 
them quite disheartened by his harsh reproof, he gave them 
half a guinea apiece to drink his health and raise their 
dejected spirits. 

Soon after this we were called to a very genteel entertain- 
ment, which was dressed by Mr. Thornhill's cook. And it 
may not be improper to observe, with respect to that gentle- 
man, that he now resides, in quality of companion, at a re- 
lation’s house , 1 being very well liked, and seldom sitting at 
the side-table, except when there is no room at the other ; 
for they make no stranger of him. His time is pretty much 
taken up in keeping his relation, who is a little melancholy, 
in spirits, and in learning to blow the French horn. My 
eldest daughter, however, still remembers him with regret ; 
and she has even told me, though I make a great secret of 

1 apparently as a sort of feeder. 


THE CONCLUSION. 


189 


it, that when he reforms she may be brought to relent. 
But to return, for I am not apt to digress thus ; when we 
were to sit down to dinner our ceremonies were going to he 
renewed. The question was , 1 whether my eldest daughter, 
as being a matron, should not sit above the two young 
brides ; hut the debate was cut short by my son George, who 
proposed that the company should sit indiscriminately, every 
gentleman by his lady. This was received with great appro- 
bation by all, excepting my wife, who, I could perceive, was 
not perfectly satisfied, as she expected to have had the 
pleasure of sitting at the head of the table, and carving all 
the meat for all the company. But, notwithstanding this, 
it is impossible to describe our good humor. I can’t say 
whether we had more wit amongst us now than usual ; but I 
am certain we had more laughing, which answered the end 
as well. One jest I particularly remember : old Mr. Wilmot 
drinking to Moses, whose head was turned another way, my 
son replied, “ Madam, I thank you.” Upon which the old 
gentleman, winking upon the rest of the company, observed 
that he was thinking of his mistress ; at which jest I thought 
the two Miss Flamboroughs would have died with laughing. 
As soon as dinner was over, according to my old custom, I 
requested that the table might be taken away, to have the 
pleasure of seeing all my family assembled once more by a 
cheerful fireside. My two little ones sat upon each knee, the 
rest of the company by their partners. I had nothing now 
on this side of the grave to wish for ; all my cares were over ; 
my pleasure was unspeakable. It now only remained that my 
gratitude in good fortune should exceed my former submis- 
sion in adversity. 

i Matters of social etiquette were then, of course, of far greater importance than we can 
easily realize. 



The Clarendon Dictionary 

BY 

WILLIAM HAND BROWNE, 

Professor of English Literature, Johns Hopkins University. 


THE PRONUNCIATION BY 

S. S. HALDEMAN, LL.D., 

Late Professor of Comparative Philology in the University of Pennsylvania. 


A concise handbook of the English Language, in Orthog- 
raphy, Pronunciation, and Definitions — for the pupil’s school 
desk, the business man’s office desk, or the home book table. 

The steadily growing favor with which the former edition 
of the Clarendon Dictionary has been received during the 
past fifteen years, indicates a popular approval of its plan and 
appreciation of its merits. New plates have now been made 
with a careful revision throughout. 

Plan. — The Clarendon Dictionary is the result of an 
attempt to produce, in small compass, a concise and at the 
same time complete and accurate dictionary of standard 
English ; that is, such English as is likely to be met with in 
ordinary reading, but excluding the special terminologies of 
art and science, rare and obsolete words, technical terms of 
limited use, local and dialectic words, and slang. The spell- 
ing and pronunciation are those sanctioned by the best 
standards of usage, alternatives being given in some cases ; 
and the definitions are made as clear and accurate as pos- 
sible, and are as full as the limitations of the book will allow. 

Author. — The author, the accomplished professor of 
English Literature in Johns Hopkins University, has high 
rank as a scholar and writer, and special qualifications for 
such a work. 


MAGNIFICENT 


175 


MALISON 


magnificent, mag- 
nify ' i-sent, a. 
splendid; illus- 
trious ; grand.— 
n. magnificence, 
magnify, mag'nifi, 
v.t. to exalt ; en- 
large. 

magniloquent, mag- 
nil 'o-kwent, a. 
bombastic in style. 
— n. magniloquence, 
magnitude, mag'ni- 
tud, n. greatness ; 
size ; importance, 
magnolia, mag-nol'- 
i-fi, n. genus of 
flowering trees. 



Magnolia. 



Magpie. 


magpie, mag'pl, n. a parti-colored 
bird allied to the crow, 
mahlstick, mal'stik, n. a paint- 
er’s hand-rest, 
mahogany, ma-hog'a-ni, n. 

a tropical tree; its wood. 

Mahometan, ma-hom'et-an, mmPt " ‘ 
see Mohammedan, 
maid, mad, n. an un- 
married woman ; vir- 
gin ; female servant, 
maiden, mfid'n, n. a 
young unmarried wo- 
man. —a. pertaining 
to a maiden ; pure ; 
fresh ; first. 

maiden-hair, mfid'n-har, 
n. a slender fern, 
maidenhood, mfid'n-hud, n. state or time of 
being a maiden. 

maidenly, mfid'n-li, a. like, or befitting, a 
maiden ; modest. 

mail, mfil, n. defensive armor of metal. 

mail, mfil, n. bag for conveying letters ; 
quantity of letters conveyed ; means of 
conveying letters. — v.t. to put into the 
mail ; send by mail. 

mailed, mfild, p.p. and a. armed in mail. 

maim, mfim, n. an injury ; mutilation. — v.t. 
to injure ; cripple ; mutilate. 

main, mfin, a. chief ; principal. — adv. mainly. 
— n. the chief part ; the ocean. 

mainland, mfin'land, n. a continent, 
mainmast, mfin'mast, n. the principal mast 
in a vessel. " [mast, 

mainsail, mfin'sfil, n. lowest sail of the main- 
mainspring, mfin'spring, n. the principa 
spring of any machinery, esp. of a watch, 
mainstay, mfin'stfi, n. stay of the mainmast, 
maintain, man-tan', v.t. to uphold ; keep ; 
keep up ; support ; affirm. — v.i. to affirm. 


maintenance, mfin'ten-ans, n. support ; con- 
tinuance ; defense. 

maiolica, majolica, mq-yol'i-kg, n. a kind of 
enamelled earthenware with colored deco- 
ration. 

maize, mfiz, n. Indian 
corn. 

majesty, maj'es-ti, n. 
grandeur ; dignity ; 
title of sovereigns. 

—a. majes'tic. 
major, mfi'jqr, a. 
greater. — n. a per- 
son of full age ; 
military officer next 
above a captain, 
majority, mfi-jor'i-ti, 
n. the greater num- 
ber ; difference be- 
tween two num- 
bers ; full age ; office of a major, 
make, mfik, v.t. to form : produce ; cause to 
be ; compel ; gain ; attain. — v.i. to tend ; 
contribute.— p.t. and p.p. made. — n. shape 
texture. [Maker, the Creator, 

maker, mfik'qr, n. one who makes ; the 
makeshift, mfik'shift, n. a_ temporary ex- 
pedient. 

malachite, mal'a-klt, n. a green ore of copper, 
which takes a fine polish, 
maladministration, mal-ad-min-is-trfi'shun, n. 
bad management. 

malady, mal'a-di, n. disease ; illness, 
malaga, mal'a-ga, n. a Spanish wine, 
malapert, mai'a-pert, a. pert ; saucy, 
malaria, mal-ar'i-a, n. exhalations of marshes, 
etc., producing fever.— a. malarious, mal- 
arial. [ n . one who is discontented.! 

malcontent, mal'kon-tent, a. discontented. — I 
male, mfil, n. one of the sex that begets 
young. — a. pertaining to the male sex ; 
masculine. 

malediction, mal-e-dik'shun, n. a curse, 
malefactor, mal-e-fak'tor, n. a criminal, 
malevolent, mal-ev'o-lent, a. wishing evil ; 

malignant. — n. malevolence, 
malfeasance, mal-fe'zans, -ffi'-, n. evil-doing, 
malformation, mal-for-mfi'shuu, n. defective 
formation ; deformity, 
malice, mal'is, n. ill-will ; spite.— a. mali'cious. 
malign, ma-lln', a. malicious ; unfavorable. 
— v.t. to speak evil of. 

malignant, ma-lig'nant, a. malicious ; bitterly 
hostile ; dangerous to life, 
malignity, ma-lig'ni-ti, n. malice ; extreme 
ill-will ; virulence. 

malinger, ma-ling'ger, v.i. to feign inability 
or sickness. — n. malingerer, 
malison, mal'i-zqn, n. a curse. 



Maize. 

(Ear, and top of stalk.) 


dbze ; Use, rule, pull, up ; oil, out ; thin, the ; get, jet ; kin, sin ; chip, az(zh)ure. 
Specimen Page from Clarendon Dictionary. 


THE CLARENDON DICTIONARY.— New Edition 


Pronunciation. — The pronunciation was prepared by the 
late Professor S. S. Haldeman, whose extensive knowledge 
of linguistics and phonology especially qualified him for 
the task. Some alternative pronunciations, which seem to 
have the support of sufficient authority, have been admitted. 
The symbolic key used in the respellings for pronunciations 
is of marked simplicity and clearness. 

Revision- — In order to increase the usefulness of this 
popular handbook, it has been carefully and thoroughly 
revised by the author, and is now printed from new plates. 
The page has been somewhat enlarged and the vocabulary 
has been much extended. Many new words that have come 
into current use in the past twenty years have been added. 

Nearly 30,000 words are now included. 

Sub-Entries. — To combine the two qualities of fulness 
and conciseness, many derivatives are entered under their 
primitives without further definition when the meaning is 
unmistakably implied. Thus adverbs ending in ly, derived 
from adjectives and signifying “in a manner,” are sub- 
entered under the adjectives, as carelessly under careless. So, 
artlessness under artless , allegorical under allegory , etc. 

Capitalization — Only proper names and terms derived 
from them are now printed with capital initials. Thus 
the correct use of capitals is taught. 

Introduction. — Dr. Browne’s “ Brief Historical Sketch of 
the English Language ” which precedes the vocabulary, will 
be found of much interest and value. 

Geographical NaEqes. — The Pronouncing List of Geograph- 
ical Names has been much enlarged and includes names that 
have recently become prominent. The spellings usually fol- 
low the rules of the United States Board of Geographic 
Names, and the Royal Geographical Society. 


THE CLARENDON DICTIONARY,— New Edition 


New Appendices of value and interest have been added, 
as “Affixes” and “Values of Foreign Coins.” 

Thus, the Clarendon Dictionary in its present form appeals 
with confidence to its old friends and to the numerous new 
ones it hopes to make, as combining, in a rare manner, 
accuracy, clearness, comprehensiveness and conciseness, and 
is believed to be, in its inclusion of the largest usefulness 
in compact and convenient form, unequalled by any other 
existing manual. 

Correspondence is invited. 


i8mo, cloth, xii + 365 pages. Price 45 cts. 


UNIVERSITY PUBLISHING COMPANY 

43-45-47 EAST TENTH STREET 
NEW YORK 

352 Washington St., Boston. 

714-716 Canal St., New Orleans. 








NOV 1 190Q 



















































































































































































































Modern Readers for Graded Schools, 


Davis’ Beginner’s Reading Book. 

Davis’ Second Reading Book. 

Davis’ Third Reading Book. 

Davis’ Fourth Reading Book. 

T’nese books present the “Thought Method” or “Sentence 
Method ” of teaching reading, and are the only Readers prepared 
especially on that plan. The author is Eben 1J. Davis, latev 
Superintendent, Chelsea, Mass. 


Natural Science in Simple Stories, 

Holmes’ New First Reader. 

Holmes’ New Second Reader. 

Holmes’ New Third Reader. 

Holmes’ New Fourth Reader. 

Holmes’ New Fifth Reader. 

These books are beautifully illustrated and exceedingly attrac- 
tive. Interesting facts about plant and animal life are woven 
into charming stories, well graded, and so judiciously interspersed 
with other reading matter as not to become monotonous. As lead- 
ing Readers or for supplemental reading, they are unsurpassed. 


UNIVERSITY PUBLISHING CO., 

NEW YORK: 

43, 45, 47 East 1 Oth Street, 

NEW’ ORLEANS: BOSTON: 

7 14-716 Canal Street. 352 Washington Street. 


SUPPLEMENTARY READING 


Standard Literature Series 

Works of standard authors, edited for use in schools. Single numbers, in 
stiff paper sides, 64 to 128 pages, 12^ cents; double numbers, 160 to 256 pages, 20 
cents. In cloth, 20 cents and 30 cents. 


No. 1 (Single). THE SPY, - - - - By J. Fenlmore Cooper. 

44 2 (Double). THE PILOT,- - - By J. Fenlmore Cooper. 

“ 3 (Single). ROB ROY, - - - - By Sir Walter Scott. 

44 4(Single). THE ALHAMBRA, - By Washington Irving-. 

44 5 (Single). CHRISTMAS STORIES, Ey Charles Dickens. 

“ 6 (Single). ENOCH ARDEN and Other Poems, Tennyson. 

44 7 (Double). KENILWORTH, - - By Sir Walter Scott. 

44 8 (Double). THE DEERS LAYER, By J. Fenlmore Cooper. 

“ 9 (Double). LADY OF THE LAKE, By Sir Walter Scott. 

44 10 (Double). HORSE-SHOE ROBINSON, By John P. Kennedy. 
“ 11 (Single). THE PRISONER OF CHILLON and Other Poems 


By Lord Byron. 


12 (Double). HAROLD, - - - By Sir E. Bulwer-Lytton. 

“ 13 (Single). GULLIVER’S TRAVELS, By Jonathan Swift. 

“ 14 (Single). PAUL DOMBEY, - By Charles Dickens. 

“ 15 (Single). TWICE-TOLD TALES, By Nath'l Hawthorne. 
44 16 (Single). A WONDER-BOOK, - By Nath’l Hawthorne. 
44 17 (Single). THE SKETCH BOOK, By Washington Irving. 
44 18 (Double). NINETY-THREE, - By Victor Hugo. 

44 19 (Double). TWO YEARS BEFORE THE MAST, Dana. 


20 (Single). THE SNOW IMAGE, Etc., By Nath’l Hawthorne. 

21 (Single). EVANGELINE, - - By H. W. Longfellow. 

22 (Single). LITTLE NELL, - - By Charles Dickens. 

23 (Single). KNICKERBOCKER STORIES, By Wash’n Irving. 

24 (Double). IVAN HOE, - By Sir Walter Scott. 

25 (Single). ROBINSON CRUSOE, By Daniel Defoe. 

26 (Double). POEMS OF KNIGHTLY ADVENTURE, 

By Tennyson, Matthew Arnold, Macaulay, Lowell. 

27 (Double). THE WATER WITCH, ByJ. Fenimore Cooper. 

28 (Single). TALES OF A GRANDFATHER, - - Scott. 

29 (Double). THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS, - Cooper. 
30 (Single). THE PILGRIM’S PROGRESS, By John Bunyan. 

31 (Double); BLACK BEAUTY, - By Anna Sewell. 

32 (Double). THE YEMASSEE, - By W. Gilmore Simms. 

33 (Double). WESTWARD HO! - By Chas. Kingsley. 

34 (Double). ROUND THE WORLD IN 80 DAYS, - Verne. 

35 (Single). SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON, - Wyss. 

36 (Double). DAVID COPPERFIELD’S CHILDHOOD, Dickens 

37 (Double). THE SONG OF HIAWATHA, H. W. Longfellow. 

38 (Double). THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, Bulwer-Lytton. 

39 (Single). FAIRYTALES. For 2d School Year. Selected. 

40 (Single). THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL, - Scott. 

41 (Double). THE PEASANT AND THE PRINCE, Martineau 
42(Double). FIVE GREAT AUTHORS, Complete Selections. 

43 (Double). SILAS MARNER, - By George Eliot. 

44 (Single!. THE DUTCHMAN’S FIRESIDE, - Paulding. 
45 (Double). THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, - Goldsmith. 


THE GOLDEN ROD BOOKS 

Contain choice literature for children. Illustrated. These are the titles : 

I. Rhymes and Fables, 12c. II. Songs and Stories, 15c. 
III. Fairy Life, 20c. IV. Ballads and Tales, 25c. 


UNIVERSITY PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

43-47 E. Tenth Street, New York. 










library of congress 


iV-itfr-N-:* 






*SlV 

;V%\ 

( 


K *• 

t 

»: *; • 


■ ► 

. ; i 

r * - 

. <«< 

\ v 

■ : i 

» t 

tv 


fe! 

i ■ 

* 

iV. 

i I* 



V> 


'-V*-o 

* « 

-i„* . .. »".>w 

■•/••• 



iQ£9ji 

* • . 

P " Aa . * ii 2 





* 4 t --A » '« 1*4 / 



'7 1 J 'v */j * * 
*■.: V.'iV 


UvV’’ 


it. 

M 


£$ 
* i 

sv;‘ 


> * „ 

» i 

s . 


* ■ 

' >*W :• 

























